TEN  HOURS 


CONSTANCE  I.  SMITH 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2I,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND    COMPANY,   INC. 


THE  QUINN  8,  BODEN  COMPANY 
RAHWAY.  N.  J. 


CONTENTS 

PART   I 
MORNING  DUTIES 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  SHOPPING 3 

II  CELIA,  FATHER,  AND  OTHERS         .         .         .  22 

III  NOON 37 

IV  ROBERT 74 

PART    II 
GWENNIE 

V    DINNER 89 

VI     AFTER  DINNER           .                  .         •         •         •  "° 

VII     CELIA  AND  GWENNIE "9 

VIII     GWENNIE  ALONE *39 

PART    III 

RESPONSIBILITY 

IX     SITTING  SEWING '59 

X    LEONARD   HYDE ^6 

XI    LOVE  2°4 

XII     LURE  23* 

XIII  EFFECTS  •         .246 

XIV  FORESIGHT          .......     261 

PART   IV 
SUNSET 

XV   TEA-TIME          285 

XVI    SIX  O'CLOCK 296 


2138002 


PARTI 
MORNING  DUTIES 

.  .  .  Centered   in   the   sphere 

Of  common  duties.''  TENNYSON. 


CHAPTER   I 
SHOPPING 

THE  curb  lay  beneath  the  toes  of  her  shoes. 
Celia  stared  at  it,  and  recognizing  that  Dean 
Street  had  now  ended  and  that  Lavender  Road 
was  sliding  away  on  the  other  side  of  Wykeham 
Rise,  she  lifted  her  head,  shot  to  left  and  right 
a  glance  which  noted  traffic,  and  then  crossed 
alertly,  conscious  again  for  a  few  moments  of 
the  things  stationary  and  moving  which  filled  the 
gray  morning  light.  'Buses,  cars,  people,  shops — 
they  all  drew  near  and  she  surveyed  them.  Then 
her  wide  blue  eyes  dropped.  Walking  briskly 
and  buoyantly,  she  looked  only  at  the  surface  of 
pavement  immediately  before  her. 

She  saw  the  lines  of  brown  earth  between  the 
paving-stones ;  she  saw  innumerable  legs  waggling 
in  front  and  beside  her;  masculine  legs  in  yel- 
low gaiters,  or  baggy  or  tight,  or  light  or  dark, 
3 


4  TEN  HOURS 

trousers;  and  feminine  legs  under  a  flop  of  skirt. 
Gusts  of  tobacco  smoke  and  petroleum  came  to 
her  nostrils;  sharp  sounds  cut  her  ears;  once  or 
twice  she  sniffed,  and  all  the  time  she  hummed, 
not  because  she  was  happy;  not  for  any  reason 
at  all  but  quite  unconsciously.  She  was  not  think- 
ing, and  yet  her  brain  wheeled.  Far  away  on 
the  background  of  her  mind  little  dim  figures  of 
thoughts  moved,  but  they  were  too  distant  to 
have  outline.  They  merely  buzzed  senselessly, 
and  jostled  each  other  like  people  moving  in  a 
fog,  and  they  tired  her  brain  without  offering  it 
the  compensation  of  interest. 

Then — that  tooth  began  to  ache.  She  was 
gripped  and  commanded  by  two  sensations  which 
were  the  only  real  things  in  a  nebulous  world  of 
shifting  gray  and  silver. 

Most  sharp,  most  piercing,  was  the  toothache. 
It  was  in  her  mouth,  but  it  influenced  almost 
every  part  of  her  body.  A  little  fierce,  red-hot 
thing,  it  screwed  down  into  her,  and  her  flesh 
and  her  nerves  shrank  from  it.  It  screwed,  and 
probed,  and  burnt;  it  jagged  savagely;  it  was 
visualized  as  a  malevolent  thrust  of  pulsing  heat. 


SHOPPING  5 

Now  her  mouth  was  a  furnace;  her  body  cold. 

The  other  sensation  was  born  of  her  heart, 
but  seemed  nevertheless  to  be  in  the  pit  of  her 
stomach ;  a  heavy,  laden,  sickening  sensation.  Dis- 
content, self-pity,  hopelessness — it  was  any  of 
these  things,  or  perhaps,  more  truly,  it  was  com- 
posed of  all  three. 

Celia,  too,  was  usually  so  happy. 

It  was  all  the  tooth. 

II 

Her  underlip  pushed  at  her  upper  so  that 
her  mouth  pouted  resentfully.  Her  shoulders 
drooped,  and  her  eyes  in  their  protest  became 
enormous.  For  the  moment  her  step  grew  slow 
and  heavy.  She  felt  the  wind  to  be  a  blade 
which  slashed  her  face;  she  saw  the  interminable 
road  riding  whitely  on  between  the  gray  banks 
of  shops  with,  in  its  hardness  and  straightness 
and  sharpness,  an  air  almost  of  ferocity.  To 
cut  through  thoroughfares,  and  houses,  commons, 
fields,  and  hills,  indifferent  to  the  humanity  it 
flung  behind  it,  that  was  its  purpose.  Self- 
sufficing,  staring,  clean,  it  drove  on,  watching  all 


6  TEN  HOURS 

the  time  the  clouds  which,  beyond  leagues  of  sil- 
very space,  went  with  it. 

A  cold,  hard,  brutal  morning. 

This  was  the  forlorn  and  self-pitying  Celia; 
the  rare  Celia  who  saw  the  world  as  large  and 
callous,  and,  where  benefits  for  herself  were  con- 
cerned, stingy.  The  real  Celia  was  not  given 
to  introspection,  but  with  sunny  acquiescence,  re- 
ceived sorrow,  and  compensation,  denial,  and 
grants,  as  cognate  parts  of  the  day's  evolution. 
A  fresh  and  extremely  intrigued  expression 
usually  dwelt  in  Celia's  eyes.  "  It  can't  be  helped. 
We  must  put  up  with  it."  That  was  her  natural 
philosophy. 

But  for  the  last  few  months  there  had  been 
Gwennie  .  .  .  and  Robert  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Hyde 
.  .  .  Celia  crimsoned.  Her  thoughts,  to  drown 
that  last  name,  shrieked  at  her,  "  And  the  tooth — 
the  tooth — the  tooth!  You  must  have  it  out. 
Don't  think  about  it.  Look  at  those  apples." 

Frantically  Celia's  ego  leaped  beyond  the  radius 
of  that  grinding  heat;  that  leaden  weight;  those 
naked  facts;  and  concentrated  itself  on  its  sur- 
roundings. 


SHOPPING  7 

III 

But  one  could  not  get  beyond  the  pain.  It 
was  in  the  center  of  everything.  Round  its  stab- 
bing fierceness  as  round  a  pivot,  everything  was 
grouped  in  shapes  which  for  a  dull  moment 
seemed  all  geometrical :  squares,  triangles,  circles, 
oblongs.  One  by  one  they  lifted  into  vision,  and 
stood  down  the  clear  pale  light,  and  Celia  stared 
at  them,  ignoring  as  much  as  possible,  the  waves 
of  pain  rolling  round  them. 

Lavender  Road,  at  no  time  sluggish,  was  always 
crowded  on  Saturdays.  Along  its  right-hand  side 
where  she  was  standing,  stalls  were  set.  You 
could  hardly  move,  so  many  were  the  people  look- 
ing at  them,  and  at  the  shops,  and  coming  and 
going  up  the  strip  of  pavement  between. 

Celia's  mind  ticked  off  comments.  Those  ap- 
ples looked  good;  cheap,  too,  if  they  got  them 
from  the  front,  and  not  from  the  back  where  they 
had  a  different  kind  altogether.  Still,  you  could 
get  right  out  into  the  street  and  stand  behind 
the  stall;  people  did.  You  had  to  be  sharp,  or 
they'd  fob  any  old  stuff  off  on  you.  Pah!  how 


8  TEN  HOURS 

the  fish  smelt!  How  could  people  buy  fish  off 
stalls! 

Vegetables  were  different,  but  fish!  Why,  it 
had  probably  been  in  the  man's  bedroom  all 
night!  These  costers  only  had  one  room  for 
the  entire  family,  and  the  stock  as  well.  Bananas, 
a  penny  each  ...  but  they  were  very  soft. 
There  was  a  doll's  stall;  heaps  of  kiddies  round 
it.  There  was  the  cats'  meat.  Everybody  catered 
for,  you  see !  Those  dates  looked  nice.  Perhaps 
she'd  better  get  half  a  pound.  Not  if  they  were 
already  done  up  in  bags,  though,  so  you  couldn't 
see  what  you  were  buying.  No,  they  weren't 
done  up. 

Celia  stopped  before  the  stall.  "  Half  a  pound 
of  dates,  please." 

As,  narrowly  she  watched  selection  and  weight, 
toothache  and  heartache  were  both  forgotten. 
Celia,  the  sensible,  practical  housewife,  now  pre- 
dominated over  the  other  more  imaginative  Celias. 
The  world  was  real  enough  now;  no  huge  crea- 
ture, intent  on  evading  the  responsibility  of  look- 
ing after  her  and  giving  her  adequately  bright 
housing  room,  but  a  mere  accretion  of  air,  sky, 


SHOPPING  9 

mold,  brick,  and  exchangeable  goods.  There 
were  no  complexities,  no  insecurities,  no  arid 
places,  no  depths,  no  heights.  Everything  was 
simple  and  obvious.  One  bought,  ate,  slept,  and 
served  other  people — that  was  Life. 

As  she  walked  away,  deciding  that  Sunday's 
joint  should  be  followed  by  a  date-pudding,  the 
wistfulness  was  smoothed  from  her  face.  She 
was  engrossed  and  normal.  From  an  aggressive 
personality,  keen  as  steel,  the  road  had  dwindled 
to  a  width  of  macadam  patiently  bearing  the 
blows  of  traffic.  Her  mind  had  recovered  equil- 
ibrium, and  the  highly-colored  pictures  of  its  pre- 
vious nervous  state  were  destroyed. 

Wind  swept  down  the  streets.  After  a  night 
of  almost  continuous  rain,  stone  and  brick  were 
washed  and  stood  out  sharp  under  a  sky  full  of 
gray  cloud  and  high  white  lights.  The  sun  was 
a  silver  spot.  Faint  silvery  gleams  came  and  went 
in  the  air,  never  warming  to  yellow,  but  diffusing 
a  chill  brightness  over  the  ridged  roof  and  shelv- 
ing side-streets.  The  intense  clarity  of  the  day- 
light made  all  distances  bold  in  outline  and  color. 
They  pierced  singly  the  fugitive  lights,  massed 


io  TEN  HOURS 

collectively  in  hard  unevenness  beneath  the  clouds. 
Long  ropes  of  smoke  stretched  out  and  faded. 
Sounds  were  an  assault  upon  the  hearing  so  strid- 
ently they  came  from  all  quarters,  a  harsh  core 
to  the  soft  booming  utterance  of  the  wind. 

Celia  looked  calmly  about  her.  With  com- 
plete success  she  held  off  pain  and  discontent. 
Then  suddenly  these  tossed  aside  her  determined 
preoccupation;  they  swept  down  on  her;  they 
crushed  her. 

She  shook  herself  girlishly.  "  Oh  dear,  I  am 
silly!  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me. 
It's  all  this  tooth.  I  really  must  have  it  out.  Let 
me  see — I  want  some  sago." 

She  turned  into  the  corn-chandler's.  Think 
hard  of  sago — ignore  that  dancing  blade  of  heat 
in  one's  mouth;  that  chill  hand  squeezing  one's 
heart. 

IV 

It  was  brown  and  dim  inside  the  corn- 
chandler's.  Pale  sacks  stood  everywhere,  and 
there  were  piles  of  bright-colored  packets,  and 
lines  of  brown  drawers.  The  girl  who  served 
Celia  wore  a  blue  cotton  apron,  and  above  it  her 


SHOPPING  ii 

long  face  was  white,  her  nose  red,  her  mouth  a 
flaccid  hole.  She  spoke  thickly;  she  breathed 
audibly;  she  stared  before  her  with  dull  pained 
eyes. 

"  She's  simply  stuffed  with  cold."  Celia  re- 
flected, swiftly  pitying.  "  She  looks  miserable. 
All  the  fuss  I  make  about  toothache !  Her  head 
aches,  I  know." 

She  gave  a  confirmatory  jerk  to  her  round 
chin.  It  was  now  an  established  fact  that  she, 
Celia,  was  a  grumbler,  rooted  in  egoism  and  cal- 
lous disregard  for  other  people's  aches  and  pains 
and  sinking  sensations.  Fancying  herself  so  ill- 
used!  so  alone  in  her  misfortunes! 

"A  visit  to  a  hospital's  what  I  want!  " 

She  left  the  shop,  and  in  a  perfect  whirlwind 
of  self-contempt,  searched  the  faces  of  passers- 
by. 

The  crowd  was  composed  mostly  of  women; 
old  women  with  red  and  brown  places  under  their 
loose  skins,  and  necks  lined  like  the  bark  of  a 
tree;  younger  women,  nearly  all  of  them  in  a  cer- 
tain condition,  their  eyes  intent  on  the  shops,  their 
movements  leisurely,  their  gloveless  shiny  hands 


12  TEN  HOURS 

occupied  with  string  bags,  or  the  handles  of  a 
"  pram "  wherein  sat  babies — fat  white-faced 
babies  who  looked,  Celia  decided,  "  as  if  they'd 
bejen  steamed." 

There  were  many  children  too ;  boys  with  wiz- 
ened and  calculating  faces,  and  girls  more  childish 
and  robust;  here  and  there  you  saw  a  husband, 
his  whole  mind  centered  on  the  choice  of  Sun- 
day's joint,  or  Sunday  morning's  bloater;  and  in 
a  monotonous  line  behind  the  stalls  stood  the 
costers — thin,  hoarse,  cold,  and  vivacious.  Occa- 
sionally a  secretive  filthy  man  or  woman  slid  by. 
They  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left,  but  with 
lips  mumbling  and  eyes  at  once  vacant  and  veiled, 
drew  gaping  boots  along  the  pavement,  and  loosed 
a  wave  of  dust  and  foulness  on  the  air.  Tramps 
these. 

Smell  of  black  garments,  and  flesh,  and  breath, 
and  fish,  and  meat — that  was  Lavender  Road; 
that  was  life  for  some  people. 

Celia's  mouth,  at  all  times  pretty,  grew  beauti- 
ful in  its  compassion.  Her  eyes  protested  again, 
but  this  time  impersonally. 

"  If  you  were  like  them  you  might  have  cause 


SHOPPING  13 

to  be  sorry  for  yourself,"  her  conscience  said 
acidly.  "  As  it  is — you'll  get  a  real  sorrow  if 
you're  not  careful." 

But  her  belief  in  the  vengeful  disposition  of 
Fortune  was  less  strong  than  her  sense  of  humor. 
Very  faintly  she  smiled.  She  was  not  afraid  of 
being  overtaken  by  calamity  simply  because  she 
had  indulged  momentarily  in  discontent.  Her 
complaints  were  culpable  but  not  criminal.  Never- 
theless, thinking  about  yourself  was  a  bad  habit 
to  form. 

Celia's  will  sent  messages  to  her  feet,  her 
shoulders,  her  eyes.  She  walked  briskly,  her 
body  disciplined,  her  mouth  level  instead  of  droop- 
ing downward.  She  shook  her  fluffy  head  as  if 
her  cares  were  exterior  things  which  hovered  and 
wailed  gnat-like  about  her  ears.  Now  she  was 
mistress  of  herself,  valiant  and  resourceful.  De- 
liberately she,  as  it  were,  took  her  circumstances 
in  hand  and  re-cast  them,  abstracting  sting,  oblit- 
erating dark  shades,  emphasizing  acknowledged 
brightnesses.  Serenely  she  surveyed  their  new 
presentment.  Yes,  they  were  like  that;  just  like 
that. 


I4  TEN  HOURS 

She  turned  into  the  butcher's. 

V 

The  smell  of  humanity  and  joints  nauseated 
her.  The  red  and  cream  of  the  meat,  its  coarse- 
ness, its  quality,  suddenly  became  horrible. 

The  impression  came  and  went  within  an  in- 
stant. She  refused  to  recognize  it,  but  looked 
sharply  at  the  tickets,  seeking  amid  many  "  Im- 
ported Meat  "  for  one  "  English."  Automati- 
cally Celia  the  housewife  rose  supreme  once  more. 
So  little  habitual  were  these  fluctuations  between 
unrest  in  the  face  of  vaguely  realized  apprehen- 
sions, and  competent  acceptance  of  the  day's  de- 
mands, that  sight  of  the  familiar  objects  which 
composed  the  mosaic  of  the  latter,  were  sufficient 
to  dull  completely,  if  temporarily,  those  new  and 
disquieting  moods.  Everything  now  became  sub- 
ordinated to  the  pursuit  of  an  English  "  neck," 
the  introduction  of  nasty  meat  into  the  house 
meaning  severe  domestic  trouble. 

She  obtained  the  joint.  Triumphantly  she 
emerged  into  the  street  and  hurried  homeward, 
her  mind  intent  on  the  division  of  scrag,  and  neck, 


SHOPPING  15 

and  best  end,  and  their  apportioning  to  various 
meals.  Not  till  she  had  disposed  of  each  sec- 
tion did  she  become  consciously  aware  again  that 
neither  the  tooth  nor  the  heaviness  of  heart  had 
been  robbed  of  their  corroding  power  by  her  at- 
tempts to  reduce  them  to  trivialities  common  to  all 
humanity.  The  elaborate  tissue  of  her  arguments 
and  reasoning  was  torn  aside.  She  was  in  pain. 
She  was  unhappy. 

The  tooth  jumped  with  increased  violence  as 
she  neared  the  side-road  up  which  she  would  turn 
to  gain  Wykeham  Common.  Defensively  she 
stared  at  a  milliner's  shop,  and  saw  herself  re- 
flected in  its  background  of  mirror.  How  frum- 
pish she  looked!  Tired  too,  and  with  features 
drawn  a  little  with  pain  and  dissatisfaction.  Her 
black  felt  hat  was  utterly  without  character;  her 
skirt  hung  unequally;  her  seal  fur  belonged  to  a 
fashion  extinct  for  three  years. 

She  endured  a  sudden  numbing  vision  of  her- 
self at  thirty-five.  Eleven  years  separated  her 
age  from  that,  but  as  she  inspected  her  reflection 
she  realized  vividly  what  she  would  be  like  then. 
Tall;  not  slender  as  now,  but  angular;  face 


1 6  TEN  HOURS 

pinched  into  meanness;  eyes  wan;  hands  and  feet 
flat  and  flapping;  spinstery-looking  despite  the  fact 
-that  she  was  Mrs.  Robert  Jennings. 

"  You  look  a  maiden  now;  not  a  bit  as  if  you've 
been  married  two  years.  You'll  be  bony  then." 

Rather  languidly  her  conscience  prodded  her 
away  from  the  shop.  She  turned  up  the  side- 
road,  rallying  herself.  "  I  don't  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  me.  I've  got  the  blues,  I  expect. 
One  does  sometimes." 

There  were  three  girls  coming  down  the  road 
and  she  looked  at  them.  They  wore  beautiful 
costumes,  and  buff  velours,  and  silk  stockings  and 
heavy  furs.  Earrings  swung  under  piquant  tufts 
of  hair;  their  full  figures  were  pliant  and  strong; 
they  walked  joyously.  About  them  was  an  atmos- 
phere of  richness  and  good-breeding,  and  Celia's 
expression  grew  unpleasant.  Her  eyes  hardened; 
her  upper  lip  lifted  slightly  so  that  cynicism  sat 
on  her  mouth  like  a  wasp  on  a  rose.  She  looked 
narrow  and  young  and  acid. 

The  girls  passed.  Celia  was  cloaked  in  dark- 
ness. All  her  weaknesses  throbbed  in  her  heart — 
jealousy,  prejudice,  swift  refusal  to  grant  beauty 


SHOPPING  17 

to  those  girls,  and  the  unjustifiable  sense  that  they 
had  scanned  her  own  appearance  and  placed  her 
socially  and  physically  several  scales  below  them. 

Celia,  educated  at  a  private  school,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  clerk,  the  wife  of  a  clerk,  had  her  justice 
and  her  good  sense  blinded  by  hostility  against 
the  upper  classes.  They  did  not  want  her;  she 
did  not  want  them.  With  the  silent  forming  of 
this  opinion,  her  upper  lip  curled  and  her  soft 
chin  tilted  upward.  She  looked  neither  imper- 
tinent nor  defensive ;  she  merely  became  detached, 
and  as  unresponsive  as  a  brick  wall.  Her  naive- 
te, her  spontaneous  brightness  withered.  FOP 
tune  had  apportioned  her  a  bourgeois  position, 
She  would  keep  it. 

In  her  old  clothes  those  girls  would  have  looked 
nothing.  .  .  .  What  lovely  hats!  What  cos- 
tumes! If  Robert  spent  less  money  in  books  she 
could  have  more  clothes.  This  nasty  old  felt, 
spotted  with  innumerable  rains;  these  cheap 
woolen  gloves;  this  miserable  lean  piece  of  fur 
.  .  .  she  hated  them. 

If  only  the  tooth  would  stop  aching. 


1 8  TEN  HOURS 

VI 

Along  the  top  of  the  road  stretched  Wyke- 
ham  Common.  As  she  crossed  from  the  parallel 
line  of  small  gray  houses  and  walked  through  a 
grove  of  high  leafless  elms,  only  railings  separat- 
ing her  from  the  sodden  grasses,  the  wind  rolled 
strongly  across  the  open  space  and  drowned  her 
in  fresh  but  not  cold  air.  On  either  side  of  the 
narrow  asphalt  path,  the  ground  was  black,  and 
here  and  there  glimmering  with  rain-pools.  Re- 
peated rain  had  made  the  bare  widths  between 
the  grass  pulpy;  the  damp  breath  of  soaked  dead 
leaves  and  soaked  grass  and  sod  came  to  her  nos- 
trils. Twigs  and  thin  branches  were  scattered 
beneath  the  trees,  and  in  the  tops  of  the  elms 
the  wind  roared;  on  the  pensive  skyline  the  lean 
bushes  of  poplars  swung  like  pendulums. 

White  lights  flashed  upon  the  green,  and  faded. 
Uniformly  gray  and  sharp-cut,  the  houses  near 
and  distant  stood  round  the  common,  wrapped  in 
that  abundance  of  earth-scented  wind.  No  sun- 
light, no  leaves,  no  warmth.  Nevertheless,  the 
common  was  singularly  bright,  full  of  rustlings 


SHOPPING  19 

and  melodious  oozings;  washed,  perfumed.  The 
tartness  of  winter  was  passing  from  it.  There 
was  softness  in  the  clouds  and  in  the  shadows. 
The  wilderness  of  the  sky  was  not  savage  but 
tantalizing,  and  as  it  rolled  low  over  the  distant 
roofs,  it  spoke  of  coming  blue  and  a  yielded  sun. 

She  passed  the  pond.  The  three  islands  in  its 
center  were  black  and  tangled.  The  water  rose 
in  tiny  pyramids,  some  of  their  slopes  wrinkled, 
while  others  were  smooth  like  jelly.  High  against 
the  stone  wall,  the  water  rubbed,  and  its  lapping 
murmur  and  the  sibilant  whispering  of  the  island 
trees  and  grasses,  followed  her  for  some  way. 
Once  she  glanced  back,  and  the  pond,  brown 
when  she  passed  it,  was  now  steel  colored  around 
its  lean  tufts  of  tree.  She  could  see  it  heaving, 
but  its  sound  was  no  longer  audible. 

She  went  forward  briskly.  There  was  so  much 
to  do  before  dinner,  and  father  would  be  getting 
up,  and  she  liked  to  be  in  the  house  then. 

The  common  grew  wilder.  In  low  waves  of 
yellow  soil  spaced  with  grass  and  gripped  with 
gorse,  it  rushed  to  the  railway  lines  driving 
through  it.  Single  trees  waved  above  its  seats, 


20  TEN  HOURS 

and  files  of  young  saplings  stood  down  its  paths; 
and  the  keen  odors  of  its  pools,  and  decaying  and 
sprouting  allotments,  were  puffed  across  its  ways, 
made  acrid  by  the  smoke  of  trains  coming  and 
going  every  minute. 

Sights,  sounds,  scents,  were  all  too  familiar  to 
rouse  Celia's  attention.  Often  she  had  valued 
highly  this  open  space,  but  to-day  she  saw  it  lying 
swarthy  and  limited  under  the  sky,  without  beauty, 
and  without  grace.  To-day  it  was  characterless. 
No  influence  emanated  from  grass,  bush,  or  tree. 
It  lay  in  the  thin,  pure  light,  with  its  murmurs 
and  movements  empty  of  purpose,  a  mere  auto- 
matic response  to  the  great  wind. 

Beyond  it  was  hooped  the  white  bridge  with 
'buses  and  cars  rattling  up  and  down.  On  the 
left  of  the  bridge  stretched  a  row  of  shops  and 
houses  divided  by  the  railway  and  by  side-roads. 
In  one  of  these  roads  Celia  lived. 

VII 

She  reached  the  end  of  the  common  and  crossed 
the  road.  The  clouds  were  breaking  apart,  the 
common  was  swept  with  silver,  blue  tones  stained 


SHOPPING  21 

the  gray,  and  then  the  sun  stood  out,  barred  above 
and  below  with  cloud,  and  pale  yellow  gleams 
floated  over  the  trees  and  gilded  the  houses. 
Windows  flashed  red-gold;  a  pale  mist  of  gold 
broadened  everywhere,  and  the  smokes  of  the 
trains  hung  shining  above  the  spikes  of  the 
railings. 

Of  course  it  would  turn  nice  just  as  she  was 
going  in!  There  was  not  much  chance  of  get- 
ting out  again  to-day! 

She  slammed  her  gate  and  walked  up  to  the 
door.  As  she  felt  for  her  key  she  noted  the  step ; 
it  needed  hearthstoning  again.  As  she  opened 
the  door  she  heard  the  reedy  clamor  of  the  wind 
in  the  plane-trees,  the  rumors  of  its  march  across 
the  common.  She  entered  the  passage,  and  a  dry 
smell  of  smoke,  and  chill  vitiated  air  met  her, 
and  roused  that  same  repulsion  she  had  felt  in 
the  butcher's.  She  closed  the  door  and  stood  in 
the  brown  dull  light  of  the  passage. 

The  suburb  was  washed  by  the  clean  humming 
ocean  of  wind,  sheeted  with  lemon-colored  glows. 

The  house  was  still,  cold,  dark. 


CHAPTER   II 
CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS 

SHE  took  off  her  coat  and  hat  and  hung  them 
on  the  hat-stand.  In  the  room  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  father  was  moving.  The  smell  of 
smoke,  and  the  metallic  noises,  showed  that  he 
was  lighting  the  fire. 

She  smoothed  her  hair  with  her  palm  and 
looked  half  with  pleasure,  half  with  wistfulness 
at  her  pale  face,  her  pink  mouth,  her  soft  chin 
which  in  itself  was  round,  but  which  viewed  after 
her  broad  brow,  appeared  pointed;  with  a  sudden 
spurt  of  vivacity,  she  said : 

"Well,  your  hair's  straight  enough,  anyway!  " 
and  drove  her  fingers  through  it  and  drew  it  out 
wildly,  and  then  looking  owl-like  and  wondering 
and  ruffled,  entered  the  front  room. 

This  was  the  dining-room,  but  a  small  space 
was  screened  off  for  father's  bed. 

She  opened  the  window  and  then  went  into  the 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS       23 

kitchen,  calling  out  as  she  passed  the  staircase: 

"Brekker's  ready,   father!" 

An  "  all  right "  floated  down  to  her. 

Sharp  inspection  of  the  kitchener  found  her 
statement  to  be  justifiable.  His  porridge  was 
ready,  and  so  was  the  jug  of  milk  standing  in 
the  saucepan  of  boiling  water.  She  put  some  coals 
on  the  fire,  and  then  looked  at  the  table. 

One  corner  of  it  was  covered  with  a  cloth  laid 
with  a  blue-and- white  soup  plate,  a  napkin,  cut- 
lery, sugar  and  salt.  She  put  a  chair  ready  for 
him,  and  then  emptied  her  shopping  basket. 

"  Good  morning,  dear,"  he  said  in  a  high  plain- 
tive voice. 

"  Good  morning,  pup,"  Celia  rejoined  cheer- 
fully, and  kissed  him.  "  Had  a  good  night?" 

"  Oh,  not  very  good.  The  wind  made  such 
a  noise.  I  thought  it  would  blow  the  window  in, 
and  I  could  feel  it  on  my  face." 

"  Poor  old  pup !  you  want  a  bit  of  cotton  wool 
in  your  ears.  Our  window  simply  danced.  Rob- 
ert couldn't  find  the  wedge  last  night;  consequence 
— no  end  of  a  din!  Are  you  ready?  shall  I  pour 
your  porridge  out?" 


24  TEN  HOURS 

"Yes,  quite  ready,  thank  you." 

He  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  with  trem- 
bling fingers  opened  the  napkin  and  tucked  it  in 
his  collar. 

"  The  fire  didn't  light  very  well,"  he  said,  his 
voice  still  more  plaintive. 

"  I  thought  the  place  smelt  full  of  smoke. 
Never  mind.  Have  your  breakfast  now  and  for- 
get all  about  it.  ...  I've  got  a  lovely  bit  of  Eng- 
lish meat." 

"  Ah,"  father  said,  and  watched  with  lusterless 
eyes  as  she  poured  out  the  porridge  and  added  the 
hot  milk  to  it. 

"All  right  now?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you." 

"  That's  the  way." 

She  nodded  her  fair  head  at  him,  and  he  smiled 
feebly,  eating  the  porridge  slowly  and  without 
enthusiasm. 

II 

William  Clarke  was  seventy-six,  a  small  old 
man  with  a  high  narrow  head,  long  fat  pink 
cheeks,  a  rather  red  nose,  a  white  beard,  and  wide, 
blue  rheumy  eyes  with  deep  bags  beneath  them. 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS       25 

He  wore  an  old  velvet  jacket  and  a  round  velour 
cap  edged  with  fur.  This  had  once  been  the 
crown  of  Celia's  honeymoon  hat.  She  had  cut 
off  the  brim  this  winter,  bound  it  with  fur,  and 
given  it  to  father  in  place  of  the  greasy  cap  he  was 
then  wearing  on  his  bald  head.  As  he  sat  now 
at  breakfast,  his  feet  on  the  rung  of  his  chair, 
a  rheumy  tear  on  his  cheek,  and  the  cap  a  little 
on  one  side,  he  looked  a  grotesque  and  not  alto- 
gether pleasant  figure.  His  movements  were  wav- 
ering; the  droop  of  his  thick  eyelids  almost  sanc- 
timonious; the  smoothness  of  his  bulging  cheeks, 
the  looseness  of  his  lower  lip  sharply  sensual. 

Father  had  been  a  bank  clerk.  He  had  mar- 
ried when  he  was  thirty-four  a  girl  considerably 
younger  than  himself.  There  were  five  children 
of  the  marriage. 

Father  was  not  the  most  satisfactory  of  men 
either  as  husband  or  parent.  Without  being  a 
drunkard  he  was  sufficiently  addicted  to  billiards 
and  beer,  and  sufficiently  fuddled  by  a  quite  mod- 
erate amount  of  the  latter  for  him  to  be  a  source 
of  anxiety  to  his  wife,  and  an  object  of  fluctuating 
scorn  to  himself.  Father,  accompanied  always 


26  TEN  HOURS 

by  his  family,  given  light  domestic  duties  to  occupy 
his  mind,  allowed  daily  two  glasses  of  beer,  petted 
and  praised,  was  a  temperate  man,  and  if  not  a 
jovial  at  least  a  comparatively  happy  one.  But 
father,  unguarded,  left  to  follow  the  inclinations 
which  led  him  among  boisterous  companions  and 
their  stimulating  amusements,  would  in  these  cir- 
cumstances have  deteriorated  rapidly.  He  would 
have  sunk  into  a  degraded  and  maudlin  old  age. 

Therefore,  when  twelve  years  ago  his  wife  died, 
he  became  the  first  consideration  of  his  family. 
As  one  by  one  its  members  entered  matrimony, 
he  passed  from  household  to  household,  and  finally 
when  Celia  became  Mrs.  Jennings,  he  took  up  an 
abode  with  her  which  was  only  to  end  with  his 
death. 

Alice,  the  eldest,  died  a  year  ago;  and  her 
husband  being  a  sailor,  Celia  had  for  six  months 
given  a  home  to  Alice's  daughter  Gwennie,  and 
expected  to  do  so  indefinitely.  Gwennie  was  six- 
teen. Celia,  the  youngest  of  father's  family,  was 
twenty-four. 

Celia,  bright,  firm,  sensible,  was  a  splendid 
guardian  for  the  irresolute  old  man. 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS       27 

III 

The  Clarkes  were  country  people.  Marriage 
alone  had  brought  Celia  to  Wykeham,  southwest 
suburb  of  London.  Before  that  event  she  had 
lived  always  at  Barnham,  that  little  village  ten 
miles  from  the  metropolis,  perched  amid  the  winds 
on  the  bare  ridge  of  Barnham  Downs,  with  a 
view  of  Chelsea  factory  chimneys,  and  beyond 
these,  on  the  skyline,  the  faint  heights  of  Hamp- 
stead. 

Celia  loved  the  country,  but  she  did  so  sanely 
and  without  illusion.  Imagination  was  not  one  of 
her  most  noticeable  qualities.  As  a  little  girl  she 
saw  no  fairies  dancing  in  the  humid  half-lights 
of  the  woods,  or  passing  like  flickering  flames 
across  the  hills.  She  had  no  fear  of  the  rustlings 
in  the  leaves,  made  mysterious  and  ghostly  by 
dark  and  stars;  she  would  have  adventured  boldly 
out  on  the  black  windy  uplands,  and  known  the 
vague  surrounding  shapes  to  be  bushes  and  trees, 
and  not  human  creatures  called  forth  by  the  night. 
When  she  grew  older,  she  read  no  personality 
into  the  downs  which  rippled  through  pale  mono- 


28  TEN  HOURS 

chromes  and  sank  at  last  to  the  fields;  the  trees 
were  only  "  green  things  standing  in  the  way  " ; 
earth  was  no  Demeter,  no  "  Bacchante  mother," 
but  a  solid  sphere  spinning  through  ordered  deeps 
of  space.  Celia,  practical,  downright,  and  inclined 
to  flippancy,  never  juggled  with  facts.  She  loved 
the  country,  but  she  did  not  invest  it  with  any 
magic. 

None  the  less,  her  love  was  a  keen,  sensitive 
thing  which,  raying  and  darting  about  Barnham, 
discovered  obscure  beauties  as  well  as  superficial 
ones.  Amid  many  fair  things,  one  or  two  shone 
with  an  especial  brilliance,  lingering  in  her  mem- 
ory, to  be  recalled  and  visualized  anew  long  after 
their  actual  inspection. 

The  surpassing  freshness  and  softness  of  a  row 
of  firs  standing  down  the  hill-slope  and  rocking 
their  gray-green  boughs  in  the  blue  air;  after  rainy 
days,  the  stream  of  mist  which  rose  from  the  wet 
soil  and  widened  beneath  the  sallow  sunsets  and 
the  pale  washed  sky,  into  which  moons  dipped 
and  stars  probed;  the  regular  columns  of  the 
beech-clump  on  the  Brighton  Road — wind  in  their 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS       29 

great  crests,  rotting  leaves  heaped  about  their 
boles,  black  bushes  peering  and  shaking  beyond, 
and  across  fields,  beyond  dark  trailing  hedge- 
rows, brimming  up  to  the  sweep  of  sky;  Epsom 
Downs :  to  Celia,  tripping  home  from  school  these 
were  things  to  be  noted  and  stored  away  for  con- 
sideration when  u  bothers  "  attacked  her.  There 
were  others  as  well,  but  these  were  some  of  the 
finest,  or  at  least  the  clearest  remembered  per- 
haps because  they  recurred  seasonably,  subtle 
changes  in  them,  but  their  essential  beauty  un- 
altered. 

Soil,  grasslands,  pools  of  flowers,  the  fall  of 
stars  into  view,  growing  and  dwindling  moons, 
sudden  careless  scents  and  sounds,  larks  in  windy 
heights;  and  above  all,  enclosing  all,  the  tumult 
of  the  Downs,  surging  close  at  hand  with  roads 
sinuously  banding  them,  and  in  the  distances, 
breaking  upon  the  sky  and  floating  above  the 
towns — these  were  things,  recondite  and  beautiful, 
in  Celia's  life. 

More  human  and  less  esthetical  pleasure  was 
given  by  school  friendships.  Celia  had  many 


30  TEN  HOURS 

friends.  She  was  always  in  the  center  of  girls, 
her  fair  head  high  above  theirs,  her  glances  speed- 
ing to  left  and  right,  her  tongue  as  swift  and  pert 
as  her  glances.  She  indulged  in  no  violent  attach- 
ments, but,  gregariously  inclined,  came  and  went 
with  a  dozen  companions,  talking  all  the  time, 
preferring  some  to  others,  broadly  classifying 
them,  and  generally  not  very  far  out  in  her  esti- 
mates. These  were  pleasant  days  and  scenes. 

Then  there  was  father.  Of  the  chiaroscuro  of 
her  young  life,  father  was  the  shadow. 

Every  day  he  went  to  a  bank  at  Epsom  and 
there  were  evenings  when  he  was  an  hour  late; 
when  he  came  home  "  flopperty  "  about  the  legs, 
filmy-eyed,  and  discoursive  and  slow  of  speech; 
when  a  faint  horrible  smell  of  alcohol  was  loosed 
on  the  air  of  the  room  and  hung  there  as  a  menace, 
a  weight,  a  fear.  .  .  . 

No  one  enlightened  Celia  as  to  the  meaning  of 
these  physical  and  atmospheric  facts.  She  was  not 
to  know  of  Father's  weakness;  she  was  so  young; 
let  her  at  least  be  spared  the  pain  of  knowledge. 

But  Celia's  sharp  eyes  saw  he  was  "funny"; 
her  round  little  nose  sniffed  and  recognized;  her 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS     31 

ears  caught  the  altered  intonation  of  his  voice 
and  of  mother's;  Celia  knew. 

Thus,  very  soon,  she  was  sharing  the  respon- 
sibility of  watching  him;  she  became  a  small  but 
stout  link  in  the  human  chain  which  circled  and 
restricted  his  movements.  When  mother  died  she 
entered  into  a  wordless  compact  with  Alice,  the 
only  other  girl,  to  do  all  for  father  that  could  be 
done;  to  help  the  staid,  serious-eyed,  married  sis- 
ter of  twenty-eight,  with  all  these  feminine  intui- 
tions and  diplomacies  and  subterfuges  which  were 
beyond  the  boys'  conception.  And  in  this  at  once 
sordid  and  beautiful  guardianship,  she  was  as 
pert  and  brisk  as  in  her  school  affairs.  Father, 
weakly  lashing  himself  for  his  failings  and  sin- 
cerely anxious  to  amend  them,  flinched  under  the 
thrust  of  her  blue  eyes,  and  the  shake  of  her  head 
with  its  two  waves  of  hair  and  its  pale  blue  bow, 
the  poise  of  her  long  slim  body,  as  if  she  were 
the  parent  and  he  the  culpable  child.  He  dreaded 
the  derisive  tilt  of  her  chin,  and  the  lift  of  her 
mouth.  He  was,  poor  man,  so  anxious  to  be  re- 
spected and  admired,  and  Celia  had  such  a  dis- 
concertingly straight  look!  She  penetrated  all 


32  TEN  HOURS 

humbug;  she  measured  all  protestations;  she  dis- 
cerned all  motives;  she  was  terribly  honest,  and 
keen,  and  blunt.  Father  loved  her. 

She  had  her  romantic  side,  though  she  did  not 
display  it  to  her  girl  friends  and  was  disposed  to 
ridicule  it  to  herself.  Sometimes,  walking  down 
the  Brighton  Road  when  the  fields  were  filling 
with  dusk  and  the  sweeps  of  the  hills  were  golden 
in  the  fading  light,  she  had  thought  pensively  of 
love  and  pictured  some  vague  but  radiant  per- 
sonality bringing  it  to  her. 

The  fields  dropped  away  in  the  blue  silence; 
the  burning  brands  above  the  woods  died  out; 
the  sky,  from  a  luminous  pallor,  turned  green  and 
then  dark  mauve.  She  saw  the  village,  and  the 
lights  swinging  above  the  glimmer  of  the  road- 
way. Now  woods,  lanes,  meadows,  were  black, 
and  the  moldings  of  the  hills  washed  out  by  dark- 
ness. Starlight  lay  in  the  upper  heights  of  air 
like  silver  smoke.  Dreamy-eyed,  drooping-lipped, 
Celia  would  go  indoors,  having  glimpsed  across 
the  hush  and  perfumed  breadth  of  the  country, 
the  stir  and  glitter  of  a  life  other  than  this;  hav- 
ing breathed  an  unconscious  summons  to  love. 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS      33 

having  advanced  timidly  to  the  borderland  of 
unconscious  desire. 

To  be  admired,  beloved;  to  love,  to  serve; 
throbbing  conception  of  happiness !  Too  shy,  too 
secret  to  endure  in  the  hardy  gaslight  under  the 
staring  pictures,  it  slipped  up  amid  the  stars,  not 
to  be  recalled  till  evening  again  found  her  alone 
and  dreaming.  The  hall  door  closed  on  the  night, 
the  room  settled  about  her,  Celia  became  practical 
once  more. 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  married,  thank  you,"  she 
replied  to  bantering  questions.  "  I've  seen  too 
much  of  it.  I  should  like  to  keep  a  cats'  home." 

When  she  was  twenty-two  she  met  Robert  Jen- 
nings. He  was  six  years  older  than  Celia,  a  quiet, 
taciturn  solemn  young  man,  to  whom  she  appeared 
as  the  incarnation  of  sunlight. 

Celia  liked  him.  She  knew  herself  beloved, 
desired.  She  did  not  feel  the  thrill  which  had 
caught  her  heart  in  the  twilight.  She  did  not  see 
marriage  as  an  ecstasy  but  as  a  comfortable  and 
inevitable  condition.  Robert  loved  her;  she  liked 
Robert;  there  were  no  impediments;  one  did  not 
want  to  have  to  keep  oneself  for  always.  What 


34  TEN  HOURS 

possible  reason  could  she  have  for  refusing  Rob- 
ert? No  girl  would.  As  for  all  that  sentimental 
rubbish  about  adoring  him  "  I  doubt  if  I'm  capa- 
ble of  it,"  Celia  said  wisely.  "  It  can't  be  a  very- 
comfortable  state  either.  I  don't  want  always  to 
be  kissing;  never  get  anything  done  1  And  he 
thinks  I'm  perfect.  It's  quite  enough  for  one  per- 
son to  be  silly." 
Celia  married  him. 


IV 


They  came  to  live  at  Wykeham  in  a  house  over- 
looking Wykeham  station.  Father  came  with 
them.  They  were  all  three  perfectly  happy. 

Celia  had  a  woman  twice  a  week  for  the  rough 
work;  the  other  duties  she  delighted  in  attending 
to  herself.  Robert  earned  £250  a  year,  and  it 
was  engrossing  work  scheming  how  to  run  the 
house  properly  and  yet  save  a  little;  engrossing 
for  a  while;  then  a  little,  a  very  little,  harassing. 

Robert  gave  her  enough  for  housekeeping,  and 
no  more.  He  did  not  smoke ;  he  made  his  clothes 
last,  he  had  one  extravagance  only — books. 


CELIA,  FATHER  AND  OTHERS      35 

Robert  wanted  to  become  an  author.  He 
bought  foolscap-paper,  typing  paper;  literary  pe- 
riodicals, books,  new  and  second-hand.  With 
solemn  ardor  he  "  went  in  "  for  literature. 

Celia,  brow  puckered  a  little,  looked  at  the 
books,  etc.,  and  reckoned  the  cost;  looked  at  her 
wardrobe  and  pondered  over  prices.  Things  were 
very  dear;  one  must  have  clothes  sometimes;  ob- 
viously Robert  could  not  buy  books  and  costumes 
as  well;  she  was  saving  scarcely  anything. 

Celia  let  the  front  bed-room  to  a  young  man — 
Mr.  Leonard  Hyde.  That  meant  three  guineas 
a  week  extra.  Her  spirits  rose. 

V 

She  had  been  married  a  year  when  Alice  died. 

For  six  months,  Alice's  husband,  George  Bur- 
gess, was  at  home  with  Gwennie.  Then,  Celia 
offered  to  take  the  girl.  The  sailor  might  be 
away  for  a  number  of  years.  "  I'll  look  after 
her,"  said  Celia.  "  I  shall  like  it;  and  you'll  know 
she's  all  right.  She'll  be  better  with  me  than  with 
any  of  the  boys.  Their  wives — "  Celia  sniffed. 

Therefore   Gwennie,    sixteen,    handsome,   her 


36  TEN  HOURS 

personality  as  yet  obscure,  joined  the  Jennings' 
household. 

She  went  out  as  bookkeeper  to  a  large  provi- 
sion store  up  Wykeham  Rise.  The  weekly  ten 
shillings  she  paid  to  Celia  was  all  "  extra."  Be- 
sides "  You'll  be  company  for  me,"  her  aunt 
stated. 

Gwennie  shook  her  shoulders  and  giggled. 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  Celia  repeated  as  if 
some  one — Gwennie  by  that  movement,  or  her 
own  heart — had  questioned  the  assertion. 

That  was  six  months  ago.  This  morning  in 
Lavender  Road,  Celia's  mind,  offering  reasons  for 
depression,  itemized  "  Gwennie,  Robert,  Mr. 
Hyde."  Three  reasons  for  discontent.  Mad- 
deningly monotonous  they  revolved  in  Celia's 
head:  "  Gwennie,  Robert,  Mr.  Hyde." 


CHAPTER   III 
NOON 

WHILE  father  ate  his  porridge,  Celia  put  her 
parcels  away  in  a  cupboard  and  talked  to  him. 

"  It  looks  as  if  it's  going  to  be  a  nice  day. 
You'll  get  your  walk  to-night.  Lavender  Road 
was  simply  crowded.  Such  a  poor  miserable- 
looking  lot  of  people  too.  I  don't  know  how 
they  manage  to  live;  smelly  rooms  and  no  end 
of  babies,  and  a  few  shillings  a  week,  and  they 
look  so  cheerful  on  it!  " 

"  I  thought  you  said  they  looked  miserable," 
father  observed  with  wan  interest. 

"  Oh,  I  mean  their  clothes  and  their  general 
appearance;  most  of  them  were  awfully  perky. 
There's  some  credit  in  being  jolly  under  those 
circumstances,  I  should  think." 

Father  made  an  affirmative  noise  in  his  throat, 
and  solemnly  passed  his  spoon  round  the  porridge 
now  cooled  into  a  jelly-like  circle. 

37 


3  8  TEN  HOURS 

Celia  shut  the  cupboard  door.  Lavender  Road, 
summoned  by  her  remarks  into  a  series  of  dreary 
mental  pictures,  both  for  herself  and  for  father, 
offered  the  latter  a  subject  for  rumination,  and 
served  herself  as  a  weapon  with  which  vigorously 
to  repel  those  nimble  apprehensions,  discontents, 
and  jealousies  which  threatened  to  overcome  her 
peace  of  mind.  Recollection  of  haggard  faces 
and  malodorous  garments  was  a  stern  corrective 
for  the  "  blues." 

Father's  meditations,  however,  did  not  crystal- 
lize into  any  suggestive  speech.  He  sat  with  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  diminishing  island  of  oatmeal, 
the  pale  sunlight  giving  a  faint  gloss  to  the  brown 
fur  round  his  cap.  His  down-dropped  lids,  and 
face  elongated  by  the  slow  movements  of  his  jaw, 
emphasized  the  slight  severity  of  his  appearance. 

Celia,  therefore,  became  silent.  The  tooth,  in- 
active for  the  last  few  minutes,  now  thrust  burn- 
ingly  down  into  her  neck  and  beat  burningly  in 
her  gum.  A  haze  of  pain  was  round  her  head. 
She  was  thankful  for  father's  silence. 


NOON  39 

II 

The  kitchen  was  a  square,  comfortable  room. 
The  window  looked  westward.  From  it  you  could 
see  the  black  beds  and  paths  of  the  garden;  the 
small  lawn,  the  reedy  bushes ;  the  wet  garden  seat 
and  also  a  space  of  sky;  the  traffic  of  white  morn- 
ing clouds,  and  the  rose-colored  drifts  at  evening. 
Changing  and  beautiful  lights  fell  softly  into  the 
room.  Sometimes  the  dresser,  the  table,  the 
wooden  chairs,  were  bronzed  into  coppery  rich- 
ness; sometimes  they  blazed  golden;  often  it  was 
a  weak  primrose  glow  which  stole  across  the  gray 
town  and  massed  faintly  on  the  walls.  When  all 
the  other  rooms  were  dim,  the  kitchen  was  almost 
certain  to  have  its  pool  of  spare  illumination. 

In  the  center  now  it  was  full  of  colorless  light; 
in  the  corners  clear  dun  shadows  lay.  Birds  were 
dropping  short  bead-like  notes  on  the  windy  air; 
the  garden  trees  tossed,  and  rustlings,  and  thun- 
derings,  the  sharp  bang  of  gates  or  fall  of  dust- 
bin lids,  sounded  beyond  the  window.  Into  the 
room  came  the  smell  of  smoke  and  rotting  leaves 
and  the  moist  soil  of  the  box  on  the  window-sill. 


40  TEN  HOURS 

Celia  cut  off  the  scrag  end  of  the  joint  she  had 
bought  for  dinner.  Her  thoughts  impelled  her 
dully  to  get  from  the  pantry  an  enamel  jar,  a 
quarter  filled  with  gravy;  to  put  small  pieces  of 
meat  in  this,  cover  it  with  a  lid  and  set  it  on  a 
burner  of  the  gas  stove.  By  two  o'clock  the  mut- 
ton would  be  as  tender  !  Now  the  tapioca  she  had 
soaked  last  night;  the  milkman  would  be  here 
directly;  the  potatoes  need  not  be  seen  to  for  an 
hour  or  so ;  to  go  over  all  the  floors  with  the  car- 
pet-sweeper was  the  next  thing. 

Like  silver  tissue,  the  light  stretched  round  her 
hot  face.  The  bird  notes  were  like  water  chiming 
and  falling,  falling  and  chiming,  without  pause. 
She  felt  cool  china  under  her  hands;  splinters  in 
wood ;  edges  of  knife-handles ;  smooth  door-knobs : 
they  all  bobbed  up  like  flotsam  rising  through 
a  burning  sea.  Waves  of  burning  light  rolled 
round  her;  the  tooth  jagged  and  probed,  and 
bounded. 

She  kept  her  mouth  tightly  closed,  her  wounded 
eyes  fixed  on  the  things  she  was  touching. 


NOON  41 

III 

Celia  at  twenty-four  was  as  a  rule  passably 
pretty,  at  times  lovely,  and  always  disarmingly 
lovable.  Her  skin  was  good;  her  mouth  with  its 
pensive  droop,  its  sudden  curls,  flowerlike,  and 
worthy  of  the  poet's  "  some  bee  had  newly  stung 
it;  "  the  curve  of  her  chin  too,  into  her  throat  and 
the  little  hollow  beneath  her  underlip  were  of  an 
almost  sensible  softness,  which  irresistibly  tempted 
one  to  stroke  them;  her  nose  was  small  and  round; 
her  eyes  bluey-green  and  only  beautiful  in  their 
expressiveness;  her  brows  fair;  her  head  a  little 
too  wide  and  round.  She  was  tall,  and  as  straight 
as  a  boy.  In  her  plain  skirt  and  blue  flannel  blouse 
with  a  broad  turn-down  collar  and  a  blue  tie  she 
looked  extraordinarily  young.  Her  neck  was  very 
soft  and  slender;  she  drew  her  back  hair  high  up 
from  it,  and  this  gave  her  a  funny  prim  old- 
maidish  appearance. 

Most  attractive  of  all  were  her  "  ways."  The 
way  she  placed  her  slim  feet;  the  way  she  tilted 
her  head  and  lowered  her  lashes  and  raised  her 
upper  lip;  the  way  she  shook  her  head  till  the 


42  TEN  HOURS 

waves  of  hair  heaved  on  either  side  of  their  frag- 
rant parting;  the  way  she  clinched  an  argument 
by  compressing  that  kissable  mouth ;  the  little  un- 
expected turns  of  her  body;  her  position  when  she 
sat :  knees  close  together,  elbows  close  to  her  sides ; 
an  instinctively  maidenly  position  which  was  some- 
how more  provocative  of  attention  than  a  casual 
sprawl  would  have  been:  all  these  ways  were 
Celia's  chief  charms.  Each  one  captured  affec- 
tion. 

IV 

Just  now  she  was  wistful.  Vivacity  made  her 
less  pretty  than  wistfulness.  The  pathetic  subdued 
Celia  was  the  one  who  had  those  moments  of  love- 
liness. 

She  glanced  at  the  brown  clock  hanging  over 
the  mantelpiece.  No  good  going  upstairs  till  the 
milkman  had  come. 

Father  had  finished  breakfast.  He  got  up  and 
carried  the  crockery  into  the  scullery,  filled  the 
washing  bowl  with  hot  water  and  washed  up. 
Celia,  motionless  by  the  table  surveyed  him  so- 
berly. 


NOON  43 

She  did  not  attempt  to  put  the  sugar  and  salt 
in  the  cupboard.  Father  had  to  be  occupied  with 
duties  such  as  these  or  the  days  seemed  so  long 
for  him.  He  usually  dusted  the  downstairs  rooms 
and  the  morning-room,  washed  the  dishes,  and  his 
own  clothes.  He  had  his  methods:  slow  compli- 
cated masculine  ones  which  often  raised  a  gust  of 
impatience  in  Celia  though  she  never  criticized 
them.  He  would  leave  his  washing  in  soak  for 
days;  dusting  was  a  science  which  could  be  pro- 
longed for  hours;  no  one  else  knew  how  to  lay 
a  fire;  no  one  else  polished  the  plates  so  beauti- 
fully. Contemplating  his  domestic  virtues,  father 
became  sensible  of  a  subdued  complacency.  Per- 
haps he  saw  in  them  also,  beside  their  intrinsic 
value,  some  slight  shade  of  atonement. 

The  milkman  came  while  he  was  still  at  the  sink. 
Celia  went  to  the  scullery  door  with  a  jug  and 
stood  there  while  the  man  served  her,  wrapped  in 
wind,  staring  at  the  ivy  leaves  plunging  along  the 
wall.  The  woman  next  door  was  calling  from  a 
window  to  her  little  girl. 

"  Come  off  that  wet  grass  or  you'll  catch  your 
death  of  cold." 


44  TEN  HOURS 

The  rumble  of  buses,  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs 
and  the  fainter  rhythm  of  footsteps  coming  and 
going  on  the  bridge  just  beyond  the  garden's  end, 
made  a  pulse  of  sound  beating  steadily  amid  the 
creaking  and  scraping  noises  of  inanimate  things. 

The  milkman  departed,  Celia  shut  the  door, 
made  the  tapioca  pudding,  put  it  in  the  oven,  and 
then  armed  herself  with  the  carpet  sweeper. 

"  I'd  better  go  and  see  how  that  fire's  getting 
on,"  father  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  expected 
the  worst. 

"Perhaps  you  might  as  well,"  Celia  assented. 

They  went  upstairs,  his  slow  shuffling  tread 
following  her  light  one. 

V 

Father  entered  the  morning-room;  Celia 
mounted  the  second  flight  of  stairs  and  paused  on 
the  landing,  her  eyes  traveling  from  her  own  bed- 
room door  to  Mr.  Hyde's. 

With  a  jerk  she  turned  and -went  up  the  next 
flight  of  stairs;  glanced  through  the  landing 
window  at  the  birds  hopping  on  the  damp  flat  roof 


NOON  45 

of  the  morning-room,  at  the  houses  climbing  up 
the  milky  sky,  at  the  white  railway  signals;  and 
then  mounted  the  last  four  stairs  and  went  into 
Gwennie's  room. 

This  was  the  back  attic ;  next  to  it  was  the  bath- 
room and  then  the  front  attic. 

Celia  looked  round,  her  eyes  a  little  hard,  her 
mouth  cynical. 

The  ceiling  slanted  down  to  a  wide  low  window, 
from  which  the  bridge  and  the  common  beyond 
were  visible.  The  window  was  shut.  Of  course 
it  would  be !  Gwennie  never  remembered  to  open 
it.  How  could  she  sleep  with  it  shut  all  night! 
Celia's  hardening  gaze  transfixed  the  other  con- 
demnable  items:  the  bed  littered  with  a  hat,  a 
handbag ,  a  half-knitted  jumper ;  a  coat  thrown 
over  a  chair  back;  one  drawer  of  the  dressing- 
table  wide  open;  a  rug  ridged  up. 

Celia  opened  the  window,  cleared  the  bed,  shut 
the  drawer  sharply,  and  pulled  the  rug  into  shape. 
Then  she  began  to  drive  the  carpet-sweeper  to 
and  fro. 

The  curtains  blew  out;  sounds  rippled  up  to  the 


46  TEN  HOURS 

window  and  flowed  into  the  room ;  cloud-shadows 
gloomed  the  air,  light  blanched  it.  Celia  did  not 
lift  her  eyes  from  the  rugs. 

From  the  mantelpiece  photographs  of  Gwennie 
and  Gwennie's  friends  stared  pertly  at  her. 
There  was  Gwennie  in  profile ;  Gwennie  full-faced 
and  laughing;  Gwennie  linked  with  a  friend. 
Picture-postcards  of  actors  and  heroes  of  the  V.C., 
a  silver-framed  photograph  of  Alice,  one  or  two 
letters  and  a  small  china  doll  with  a  rolled  eye,  and 
its  "  fums  up,"  completed  the  furniture  of  the 
mantelpiece.  On  a  table  by  the  bed  were  some 
gaudy  magazines,  a  cheap  novel,  and  a  box  of 
mauve  stationery.  The  dressing-table  was  littered 
with  a  steel  bag,  a  pink  bead  necklace,  a  phial  of 
cheap  scent,  and  the  photograph  of  a  youth  with 
an  unnaturally  bright  and  alert  expression. 

Celia,  when  she  had  finished  the  rugs  and  began 
to  tidy  up,  glanced  contemptuously  at  this  youth. 
What  a  little  silly  Gwennie  was ! 

Her  accumulated  indictments  awoke  a  flurry  of 
self-rebuke.  "Alice's  daughter  —  don't  forget 
that;  very  young,  motherless;  don't  forget  that." 
She  was  not  like  Alice  though. 


NOON  47 

"  All  the  more  reason  to  be  patient  with  her 
and  make  her  like  Ally,"  Celia  murmured  half- 
audibly.  A  little  sigh  fluttered  through  her  lips. 
She  was  tired  of  looking  after  people,  enduring 
their  humors,  training,  soothing,  guarding. 
Gwennie  was  fast,  empty  headed  and  vain.  The 
glances  she  gave  Robert  were  too  precocious.  She 
was  lazy  and  slovenly.  She  resented  authority 
.  .  .  Anyhow — Mr.  Hyde  never  looked  at  her! 

Celia  swept  out  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  you  are  out  of  sorts !  The  sooner  you  go 
to  the  dentist  the  better." 

She  charged  down  the  silvered  staircase  as  if 
she  were  fleeing  from  something:  a  demoniacal, 
grinning  something,  sure  of  its  power,  eager  to 
grip  her,  master,  and  crush  her. 

VI 

She  went  into  Mr.  Hyde's  room.  She  closed  the 
door  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  hands 
trembling  on  the  stick  of  the  carpet-sweeper,  and 
her  eyes,  shamefaced,  defiant,  furtive,  glancing 
round  her. 

Panels  of  light,  wedges  of  shadow  in  the  angles 


48  TEN  HOURS 

of  walls,  the  faded  colors  of  the  carpet,  the  flash 

of  glass,  white  spaces  of  counterpane  and  marble 

and  china :  there  was  nothing  terrifying  here,  there 

was    nothing    that   was   not    commonplace    and 

familiar. 

She  moved  away  from  the  door,  and  head  bent, 
lids  down  dropt,  began  to  travel  backwards  and 
forwards  over  the  rugs. 

Her  cheeks  were  very  hot,  and  her  heart  beat 
quickly.  She  traced  the  windings  of  red  amid 
squares  of  blue  in  the  carpet;  she  saw  a  little  piece 
of  dried  mud,  and  a  little  gray  blot  of  cigarette 
ash,  she  was  conscious  of  chair  legs,  the  hem  of 
the  counterpane,  and  the  cream  skirting  of  the 
wall.  Her  lids  refused  to  lift.  Her  personality 
seemed  to  be  shrinking  far  down  into  the  fleshy 
shrine  which  was  bared  to  the  scrutiny  of  the 
room.  It  seemed  to  be  trying  to  hide  itself;  by 
silence,  by  unresponsiveness,  to  all  exterior  sum- 
mons, to  be  as  if  non-existent,  evading  questions, 
consequences,  sensation. 

The  milkman  was  calling  down  the  road  and 
the  rumble  of  his  barrow  over  the  stones  was 
audible,  together  with  the  clanging  of  gates. 


NOON  49 

Celia  looked  up.  Her  self-conscious  glance 
wandered  round  the  room.  So  much  did  it  express 
to  her  the  personality  of  the  man  who  occupied  it, 
so  vividly  could  she  see  him  in  its  midst,  that  walls 
and  furniture  seemed  to  have  become  full  of  sensi- 
bility, to  throb  with  life  and  perception.  Witness- 
ing her  embarrassment,  they  understood  its  impli- 
cation and  stared  mercilessly. 

As  if  they  were  indeed  sentient  spectators  who 
could  betray  her,  she  dissembled  her  vehement 
interest  and  looked  about  her  coolly. 

On  the  table  by  the  bed  was  a  pipe,  a  pair  of 
gloves,  and  a  red  cloth  novel.  She  bent  to  see  the 
title.  It  was  a  detective  story. 

Her  mouth  twitched  into  a  smile.  She  walked 
round  the  room,  her  head  a  little  on  one  side  like 
a  bird's,  her  glances  swift  and  veiled.  All  the 
furniture  was  her  own,  yet  she  forgot  this  and  felt 
almost  afraid  to  touch  anything.  The  room  was 
hers,  yet  she  started  at  every  sound  and  looked 
doorwards  as  if  she  dreaded  being  discovered 
here. 

Her  interest  in  Mr.  Hyde  discomposed  her, 
more  because  it  'was  provoked  by  a  man,  than 


5o  TEN  HOURS 

because  she  saw  any  danger  in  it,  or  grasped  the 
fact  that  it  was  a  current  on  which  she  moved 
without  resistance.  The  things  he  had  said  to  her, 
his  appearance,  his  candid  smile,  his  youth,  were 
all  clear-cut  in  her  memory.  Her  intuitions  played 
among  them.  Rapidly  she  built  up  his  character, 
knowledge  of  what  actually  was  becoming  a  basis 
for  knowledge  of  what  she  wished  should  be.  She 
fashioned  him  as  her  predilections  directed  and 
did  not  realize  that  he,  as  she  imagined  him, 
embodied  that  fascinating  ideal  of  her  girlish 
dreams. 

By  the  dressing-table  she  paused  and  looked  at 
herself  in  the  mirror.  In  the  strong  light,  her  face 
was  very  pale,  her  skin  might  have  been  under  a 
microscope  so  revealed  was  its  texture.  Ponder- 
ingly  she  studied  herself:  her  glinting  hair,  her 
soft  throat,  the  glaze  on  the  cheek  behind  which 
the  tooth  throbbed,  the  little  round  brilliant  brooch 
at  her  neck. 

Mirror,  windows,  walls  receded.  She  saw  the 
dim  gold-brushed  staircase,  Mr.  Hyde  coming 
down,  her  own  figure  pressed  against  the  wall,  his 
open  smiling  glance,  soft  with  admiration.  She 


NOON  51 

felt  his  hand-shake,  warm,  firm.  .  .  .  Then  her 
brain  jerked,  shutting  off  that  picture  and  throwing 
her  back  into  the  room.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
bathed  in  platinum-colored  light  which  searched 
all  nooks  both  of  herself  and  of  the  room,  and 
allowed  no  secrecies.  She  was  stunned  by  sounds 
which  were  hard  as  missiles. 

Mr.  Hyde  admired  her ;  he  thought  her  pretty, 
awfully  pretty.  Her  face  relaxed.  Robert  never 
looked  at  her  like  that  now;  he  never  fussed  her; 
he  took  everything  for  granted.  Mr.  Hyde's  gaze 
was  full  of  homage. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  lost  in  dream,  con- 
verging towards  perilous  emotions  and  yet  imagin- 
ing herself  stationary.  Her  brows  were  arched  in 
resentment,  her  lips  pouted  in  a  smile. 

Then  Celia  the  practical,  the  sensible,  hustled 
the  emotional  Celia  aside.  She  gave  her  head  a 
twirl,  gripped  the  carpet-sweeper  and  flew  into  her 
own  room. 

VII 

The  wind  puffed  the  chimes  of  church  bells  into 
hearing.  Eleven  o'clock.  A  cup  of  coffee  now, 
and  a  biscuit. 


52  TEN  HOURS 

She  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

VIII 

Father  was  washing  out  some  handkerchiefs.  A 
cloud  of  steam  from  the  water  misted  his  face; 
soapsuds  frothed  fragrantly  over  his  hands.  The 
kettle  was  boiling  on  the  kitchener,  and  water, 
brimming  over  from  the  spout,  hissed  on  the  top 
of  the  stove. 

"  Don't  touch  that  water,"  father  called  out. 
"  It's  for  my  rinsing." 

"Oh,  blow  your  rinsing!"  Celia  muttered 
without  spleen.  "  I'm  just  going  to  take  some  of 
it  for  a  cup  of  coffee.  I'll  fill  it  up  at  once  and 
it'll  be  boiling  in  a  jiffy." 

Father  did  not  protest,  but  went  on  rubbing,  the 
warm  smell  of  the  suds  eddying  round  him  and 
flowing  into  the  kitchen. 

"  The  place  smells  like  a  laundry,"  Celia  com- 
mented. "  For  goodness  sake  have  a  door  open." 

She  opened  the  scullery  door,  and  glanced  at 
the  spare  laburnums  shaking  their  tatters  of  dead 
pods  in  the  next  garden,  at  the  walls  emerging 
gray  through  a  golden  smoke  of  sunshine;  then 


NOON  53 

she  re-entered  the  kitchen  and  made  the  coffee. 

She  put  a  biscuit  in  the  saucer  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire.  The  half-burnt  coals  were  turning  gray 
and  lifeless  in  the  strong  daylight.  She  put  on 
some  more,  and  when  they  caught  stared  at  the 
plumes  of  flame,  withering  to  smoke  and  then 
burning  again  with  a  small  splutter  of  sound. 

She  drank  some  coffee,  and  at  once  she  was 
soaked  with  pain  as  with  red-hot  lava.  It  bubbled 
up  to  her  head  and  filled  her  eyes,  sank  to  her 
heart  and  drowned  it.  She  sat  rigid.  The  next 
moment  she  seized  on  thought  as  on  a  weapon  with 
which  to  repel  sensation. 

Thoughts  hammered  in  her  brain,  memories 
swept  through  it.  Her  surroundings  became  fluid 
and  unessential.  The  things  actually  affecting  her 
were  those  past  experiences  which  did  not  seem 
so  much  to  be  re-acted  by  her  brain,  as  to  stand 
before  her  vision;  completed  dramatic  scenes  pro- 
jecting sharply  from  a  background  of  bronzed 
light — pain  colored  all  things  hotly — and  throb- 
bing with  emotions  which  had  stirred  her  heart 
when  she  passed  through  them. 

Without  moving  her  eyes   from  the   fire  she 


54  TEN  HOURS 

could  see  father's  small  figure,  the  rising  and  fall- 
ing of  his  arms  as  he  drew  the  handkerchiefs  in 
and  out  of  the  water,  the  wringing  motion  of  his 
hands.  She  heard  the  water  swishing  down  the 
sink,  the  bowl  set  back,  the  drag  of  his  slippers; 
but  all  these  things  and  the  persistent  train  whis- 
tles, thin  distant  voices,  and  the  breaking  of  wind 
over  the  land,  belonged  to  another  world,  one 
high  above  her  from  which  she  had  fallen  like  a 
plummet  into  deeps  of  darkness  filled  with  those 
still  relevant  memories. 

Pressing  her  fingers  savagely  against  her  gum, 
she  surveyed  them. 

She  was  miserable,  chagrined,  hopeless,  and 
the  causes  which  made  her  so  were  Robert  and 
Gwennie,  and — and  the  tooth.  Why  Robert? 
Because  he  was  wrapped  up  in  his  books,  settled 
down  into  undemonstrative  stolidity,  careless 
whether  she  looked  pretty  or  not,  accustomed  to 
her;  very  different  from  Robert  the  lover.  She 
had  said  frequent  kisses  would  be  a  nuisance;  a 
pastime  which  clogged  the  brisk  wheels  of  the 
work  day's  evolution;  but  now  it  was  all  work  day, 
all  fact,  all  plainness,  all  routine. 


NOON  55 

Her  lusterless  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  black  and 
orange  mass  glowing  and  flickering  above  the  bars 
of  the  grate.  Slender  fawn-colored  sprays  of 
smoke  puffed  out,  flames,  primrose-yellow,  licked 
corrosively  over  the  coal.  The  fire  in  her  mouth 
was  as  hot  as  they  and  all  the  more  malevolent  for 
its  silence. 

She  was  seized  and  shaken  by  a  sudden  hunger 
for  kisses.  She  wanted  an  arm  crooked  about  her, 
a  mouth  hard  on  hers,  a  chest  heaving  against  her 
own.  It  was  not  passion  which  roused  this  desire. 
The  giver  of  the  embrace  was  featureless,  it  was 
neither  Robert  nor  any  other;  merely  an  urgent 
demand  from  her  tired  body,  and  her  uneasy 
heart,  for  protection  and  sympathy.  It  rose  from 
the  satiety  of  responsible  independence.  She  was 
wearied  with  looking  after  people;  she  desired  to 
be  governed  and  guarded;  to  luxuriate  in  freedom 
from  responsibility;  to  be  a  child  in  the  arms  of 
its  mother,  or  a  woman  wrapped  in  the  solicitude 
of  a  man. 

A  scene  in  which  Robert  figured  as  ardent  lover 
stood  round  her. 

A  January  afternoon  soon  after  their  marriage. 


56  TEN  HOURS 

Wykeham  Rise  with  sunlight  blooming  in  soft 
yellowness  over  it,  and  wind  driving  dried  leaves 
and  eddies  of  dust  along  the  pavements.  She  saw 
the  buildings  in  flight,  one  beyond  another  and 
finding  ultimately  the  sheet  of  blue  horizon. 
Tilted  where  the  sky's  wall  curved  upward  into 
its  hollow  was  the  thin  daylight  half-moon.  She 
felt  the  stuff  of  Robert's  overcoat  under  her  palm; 
she  moved  her  body  involuntarily  as  again  in 
retrospect  she  kept  pace  with  him.  The  road 
heaved  up  to  the  common  with  its  plumes  of  tree, 
its  black  network  of  railings. 

She  and  Robert  had  looked  at  the  shops.  The 
furniture  dealers  were  the  most  tempting.  They 
had  looked  at  sidepieces  and  tables,  saying  which 
they  would  have  when  they  became  rich.  The 
various  woods  with  all  their  carving  daintier  in 
memory  than  in  fact,  the  black  gleaming  pools  of 
the  table  tops,  the  wavy  graining  of  doors,  were 
all  before  her  again,  and  the  hot  dry  atmos- 
phere which  had  stolen  through  the  open  shop 
door  to  her  nostrils,  brooded  thickly  about  her 
now. 

She    saw    Robert   and    herself   threading   the 


NOON  57 

windy  streets,  while  the  afternoon  light  withdrew 
to  the  high  places  and  lay  there  in  gold  and  pink, 
leaving  the  town  gray;  she  saw  walls  of  dusk  mass- 
ing like  smoke  at  the  ends  of  roads  and  on  the 
distant  parts  of  the  common;  lamps,  pale  and 
ineffectual,  converging  into  the  dusk;  the  sheets  of 
lemon  light  fail  and  the  sky  lie  like  a  white  sea 
about  the  moon.  Robert's  hand  was  on  her  wrist; 
shadows  cut  the  pavements,  and  London  became  a 
monstrous  gloom  humped  under  a  sky  darkening 
for  the  stars.  She  and  Robert  had  entered  the 
house  as  these  pricked  through  and  the  green  haze 
of  the  night  sky  swung  like  a  silver-beaded  curtain. 

In  the  passage  Robert  had  crushed  her  against 
him  and  kissed  her  furiously. 

She  drank  some  more  coffee,  its  fumes  and  its 
flavor  running  like  a  pleasant  dream  beside  a  dark 
river  of  pain.  Father  came  in  from  the  scullery, 
mounted  on  a  chair  and  hung  his  handkerchiefs  on 
the  line.  He  descended  heavily  and  looked 
vaguely  about  him. 

"  Some  one's  just  opened  the  gate,"  he  said  in 
his  mournful  sing-song.  "  I  daresay  it's  the  baker. 
How  many  do  you  want?  " 


5  8  TEN  HOURS 

Celia  looked  at  him,  her  eyelids  heavy  on 
her  pupils. 

"  Two  large  white  and  two  little  brown. 
Crusty  ones — and  we  owe  him  for  yesterday. 
There's  some  money  on  the  dresser  shelf." 

Her  gaze  returned  to  the  fire. 

Drawn  back  momentarily  into  the  present  she 
listened  to  father  and  the  baker,  looked  at  the 
loaves  he  brought  in,  and  had  stamped  on  her  mind 
a  picture  of  the  tea-table  and  Gwennie  nibbling 
that  golden  crust  with  her  little  square  teeth  and 
looking  sleepily,  smilingly,  at  Robert.  She  heard 
Robert  say,  "  What  have  you  been  doing  to-day, 
Gwen?  Getting  on  all  right  ?  .  .  ." 

Smoke  stung  her  nostrils.  She  looked  at  the 
fire,  took  up  the  kitchen  poker  and  pushed  in  a 
piece  of  coke.  Her  thoughts  began  suddenly  to 
whirl;  those  past  experiences  crowded  about  her 
again,  and  the  room  thinned,  father  was  a  shadow. 

She  saw  Gwennie  as  she  had  been  the  day  she 
had  come  to  live  here :  her  figure,  its  curves  hidden 
by  a  loose  black  coat,  very  youthful,  her  face 
flushed,  her  black  eyes  sober,  under  a  little  round 
black  hat  pushed  rather  to  the  back  of  her  head. 


NOON  59 

Her  black  hair  was  in  a  plait,  she  wore  thick  low 
boots  and  thick  stockings  and  carried  a  plush  muff. 
Rain  sprinkled  grayly  on  the  muff  and  on  her  coat; 
her  cheeks  were  damp  and  cold;  she  looked  like 
Ally  and  very  young,  very  passive. 

Now  she  wore  her  hair  bobbed,  a  jumper  clung 
to  the  womanly  curves  of  her  body;  silk  stockings 
and  big-bowed  shoes  made  her  look  up-to-date; 
she  was  not  passive ;  and  her  youth  was  no  longer 
lovable,  but  exasperating  since  it  teemed  with  all 
the  faults  of  adolescence. 

Celia  stirred  in  her  chair.  She  finished  the 
coffee  and  the  biscuit.  Last  Monday  moved  into 
the  perspective  of  memory.  She  saw  the  hall,  the 
open  door,  Robert  coming  in,  and  she  and  Gwen- 
nie  meeting  him;  Gwennie  with  a  blue-black  sheen 
on  her  short  hair,  her  neck  plump  and  creamy,  her 
red  lips  tilted  upward,  her  eyes  as  brilliant  as  coals 
between  a  mesh  of  lash.  Robert  had  looked  at 
her,  and  she  had  looked  back  and  smiled,  Celia 
heard  the  shriek  of  train  whistles,  saw  squares  of 
light  in  the  houses  opposite  and  lamps  spacing  with 
yellow  the  windy  blackness,  felt  the  cold  air  lap- 
ping over  her  ankles,  felt  her  anger  like  water 


60  TEN  HOURS 

from  her  heart  to  her  ears  and  babble  there.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Hyde  had  come  downstairs  then,  nodded 
to  Robert,  seemed  scarcely  to  observe  Gwennie, 
and  wrapped  Celia  in  a  warm  wide  smile.  He  had 
gone  out,  and  for  one  moment  before  she  closed 
the  door  she  had  seen  stars  scattered  over  the 
ridge  of  roofs,  and  her  personality  had  seemed  to 
precipitate  itself  out  of  her  body,  and  race  across 
the  common  with  its  jerking  trees  and  faintly 
gleaming  pools  to  where  the  downs  sprang  in 
strong  curves  from  the  tilled  land  and  rolled  unim- 
peded, wind-bathed  under  those  flaming  stars. 
Her  liberated  spirit  had  been  drowned  in  a  huge 
bowl  of  darkness  and  wind,  over  which  the  stars 
shook  and  the  curled  moon  was  like  a  burning 
feather. 

Then  the  closing  of  the  door  clicked  her  imme- 
diate surroundings  about  her  again.  She  was 
caught  by  a  sudden  rush  of  pity  for  Gwennie, 
motherless,  like  Ally  sometimes  too;  had  put  her 
arm  round  the  girl,  felt  the  wool  jumper's  soft- 
ness, and  the  softness  of  the  uncorseted  figure; 
humming  had  led  her  into  the  dining  room.  ... 


NOON  61 

IX     . 

She  jumped  up,  controlled  by  a  force  stronger 
than  sadness  since  it  was  habitual  whereas  reverie 
was  a  rare  indulgence.  Commonsense  it  was  that 
impelled  her  to  her  feet.  Dreaming,  regretting, 
wishing,  to  unbuild  things  which  are  established 
and  left  behind  on  not-to-be-recovered  paths:  all 
these  were  not  only  useless,  but  evil  since  they 
bit  into  her  spirit  and  left  scars  there.  She 
was  not  herself  to-day;  she  needed  a  good  shaking. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  have  the  oven  on,"  she  said 
briskly  to  father,  "  and  make  some  little  cakes, 
biscuits  and  a  mince-pie.  Will  you  put  the  things 
out  while  I  wash  these?  " 

"Yes."  Father's  eye  kindled.  He  liked 
Celia's  biscuits.  With  accelerated  movements  he 
went  to  a  cupboard,  and  one  by  one  brought  from 
it  and  placed  on  the  table,  oatmeal,  self-raising 
flour,  salt,  sugar  and  rolling-pin. 

"  Er — mince  meat,  currants,  lard  and  tins,"  he 
said  aloud  and  went  to  the  pantry. 

Celia  returning  with  the  cup  and  saucer  glanced 
at  the  table. 


62  TEN  HOURS 

"  Good  boy!  Now  if  you  get  a  fork  you  may 
prick  them." 

"  One  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts,"  father 
observed,  a  smile  crinkling  his  bags  of  cheeks. 

"  You  ought  to  do  a  poem  on  your  domestic 
duties,"  Celia  said,  swinging  from  cupboard 
to  table. 

"  That's  a  very  good  idea." 

Father  wrote  poetry,  a  gift  which  had  been 
encouraged  by  Celia  because  it  extended  the  list 
of  those  activities  which  kept  him  from  reverie, 
and  the  dark  specters  of  desire  and  grievance  and 
cunning  latent  in  him,  and  responsive  to  solitude 
or  thought.  He  now  seated  himself  on  a  high 
stool  by  the  table,  and  dangling  the  fork,  brooded 
over  stanza  and  meter,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  white 
sky  and  the  stiff  restless  boughs  spreading  like  the 
spokes  of  a  fan  across  it. 

Celia  did  not  disturb  him.  She  was  accustomed 
to  long  periods  of  silence  from  father,  Gwennie, 
and  Robert.  The  first  and  last  of  these  persons 
were  both  of  taciturn  and  reflective  dispositions. 
Gwennie  did  not  talk  simply  because  her  mind  was 
almost  barren  of  ideas  suitable  for  communication 


NOON  63 

to  such  mature  companions.  With  the  girls  at  the 
office  she  could  chatter  volubly  enough,  but  at 
home  she  was  smiling  and  monosyllabic. 

Usually  Celia  herself  talked  without  pause. 
Everything  interested  her.  Her  intelligence  drove 
sharply  into  motives,  actions,  interactions,  social 
problems,  politics,  hygiene.  She  formed  opinions, 
not  quickly,  but  by  careful  reasoning  and  deduc- 
tion. At  times  prejudice  made  her  stupid,  dulling 
her  perceptions  chiefly  where  those  delicate  social 
lines  were  drawn,  where  she  felt  herself  and  her 
status  to  be  personally  involved.  Otherwise  she 
was  honest  and  well-balanced;  she  made  allow- 
ances for  temperament;  admitted  the  fallibility  of 
human  insight;  and  was,  without  sentimentalizing, 
prone  to  merciful  judgment.  On  two  points  only 
she  was  impervious  to  reason,  justice,  and  good 
sense:  those  points  were  social  class,  and  femi- 
nine beauty. 

She  could  therefore  talk  intelligently  on  a  wide 
range  of  subjects.  This  morning,  however,  she 
was  out  of  sorts,  silly,  grumpy,  entirely  repre- 
hensible, but  none  the  less  to  be  humored  within 
reasonable  limits.  She  must  govern  her  thoughts, 


64  TEN  HOURS 

but  her  tongue  at  least  should  not  be  forced  i.ito 
service.  If  father  found  her  dull  she  could  not 
help  it. 

Besides,  he  was  thinking  out  a  poem. 

At  once,  with  the  rising  of  that  last  word  into 
her  mind,  her  heart  felt  chilled.  She  could  not  for 
the  moment  understand  why.  As  she  greased  a 
cake  tin,  she  pondered  on  the  nature  of  this  new 
darkness,  the  atmosphere  of  some  unpleasantness 
which  at  an  earlier  hour  had  projected  itself  upon 
her  consciousness,  been  hustled  into  the  back- 
ground and  so  lost  sight  of,  and  which  was  now 
vibrating  again  through  a  chance  touch.  Poem: 
it  had  responded  to  that  word. 

Remembrance  flowed  over  her  like  a  turgid 
tide.  Of  course;  Robert's  poems  had  come  back 
this  morning  after  he  had  gone  up  to  town.  The 
long  envelope  addressed  and  stamped  by  himself 
was  now  staring  grimly  from  the  morning-room 
table.  She  knew  the  poems  were  returned  by 
its  thickness. 

Sympathy  was  followed  by  a  kind  of  mental 
grimace.  Poor  Celia  too,  since  she  would  have  to 
bear  with  added  gloom  and  silence!  Robert, 


NOON  65 

when  these  MSS.  came  back,  was  not  the  most 
pleasant  of  companions.  His  depression  grew  to 
sulkiness,  and  Celia  did  so  like  happy  people. 
Why  could  not  Robert  admit  that  he  had  no 
literary  gift  and  cease  wasting  time  and  stamps, 
and  wearing  out  his  own  spirit!  Now  he  would 
be  somber  for  days.  One  thing,  he  was  going 
cycling  this  afternoon. 

"  Will  you  pick  the  stalks  off  the  currants, 
Father?  It'll  save  my  time." 

"  You've  put  me  out.  I  thought  you  knew  I 
was  making  verses.  I  had  the  first  two  lines  and 
now  you've  put  me  out.  I  wish  you'd  be  more 
understanding,  Celia." 

"  Sorry." 

He  turned  his  funereal  face  to  her,  gazed  at  her 
with  eyes  over  which  anger  seemed  to  have  drawn 
a  film,  and  then  dropped  his  thick  lids  and  looked 
what  she  termed  "  mouthey." 

She  stared  at  the  cake  tin,  her  lips  drooping, 
and  her  face  a  white  spot  in  the  silvered  room. 
The  little  round  tins  stared  at  her  like  black 
malevolent  eyes;  the  lard  was  white  and  nauseat- 
ing, the  gas  fumes  in  the  scullery  puffed  towards 


66  TEN  HOURS 

her,  and  the  air  grew  suddenly  thick  and  stifling. 

What  was  the  good  of  standing  over  this  table 
with  these  messy  things;  of  hanging  over  the  hot 
oven?  Robert  never  praised  the  biscuits.  She 
hardly  ever  burnt  any,  and  they  were  beautifully 
light,  but  Robert  never  said  so;  he  just  munched 
stolidly.  .  .  .  Her  limbs,  her  heart,  were  soaked 
and  heavy  with  weariness  as  clothes  are  weighted 
with  water. 

X 

At  half-past  one  she  went  up  to  the  morning- 
room  to  see  to  the  fire. 

The  first  thing  she  noticed  was  Robert's  MSS. 
She  slid  the  envelope  under  a  book  on  a  side  table. 
'At  least  dinner  should  not  be  made  unpleasant  by 
it !  After  the  mince-pie  he  might  be  fortified  for 
a  blow ! 

When  she  had  put  on  some  coals  she  looked 
about  her  with  hard  eyes  as  though  at  a  bristling 
array  of  enemies.  The  room  was  full  of  tilings 
which  she  would  have  liked  to  break,  obliterate. 
His  typewriter  humping  its  shiny  black  case  in  a 
corner  near  the  window, — ugly  clumsy  thing  I—- 
the high  pile  of  literary  papers,  the  books  staring 


NOON  67 

at  her  from  the  walls,  she  viewed  them  all  with 
hostility.  In  the  shadowless  light  the  books  were 
squares  of  darkness  as  they  filled  the  small  book 
cases  with  their  dim  browns  and  dark  blues. 
Their  gold  titles  glinted;  they  were  slender  and 
alert;  bulky  and  squat;  massive  and  full  of  dignity. 
They  detached  themselves  from  the  other  things 
in  the  room.  At  once  combative  and  aloof,  they 
stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  their  own  peculiar 
atmosphere,  ignoring  the  homely  things  which 
occupied  her,  but  ready  to  be  keen  weapons  in  the 
hands  of  a  devotee.  Set  a  little  higher  than  her 
head  they  had  an  aspect  of  looking  over  her  into 
some  suitable  cultured  world  which  her  intelligence 
could  not  attain. 

Celia  cocked  her  head  impertinently  at  them. 
The  tooth  was  still  at  last;  she  had  burnt  neither 
the  cakes  nor  the  biscuits,  and  the  mince-pie  looked 
lovely!  Father,  soothed  by  their  fragrant  smell, 
their  golden  lightness,  as  she  brought  them  from 
the  oven,  and  complacent  over  the  completed  first 
verse  which  he  had  memorized,  had  grown  posi- 
tively jocular;  faint  lights  were  probing  the  neutral 
tones  of  the  house,  and  through  open  doors  and 


68  TEN  HOURS 

windows  the  wind  blew,  a  clean  cool  stream  which 
agitated  and  freshened  the  inside  air.  Her  spirits 
were  mounting;  her  natural  jauntiness  returning. 
She  hummed.  « .  .. 

XI 

She  said  aloud,  putting  down  the  shovel, 
"  There  you  are !  Everything  ready  to  a  tick ! 
Criticize  as  much  as  you  like,  my  good  people !  I 
defy  you  to  say  I'm  not  punctual — and  any  one 
who  doesn't  like  that  pastry !  " 

She  pouted  her  lips  and  nodded  her  head. 
"Oh  dear!  Don't  be  so  emphatic,  my  child! 
You'll  shake  your  chignon  down !  And  now  to  sit 
down  for  a  few  minutes — if  it's  not  too  lazy  to 
stop  working!  " 

Ironically  she  addressed  that  grim  figure  of  duty 
which  clanked  about  after  the  housewife,  daring 
her  for  one  moment  to  remove  her  manacles  and 
become  free  and  careless.  Girls  in  offices  shirked; 
they  did  as  little  work  as  possible ;  chattered,  lived 
only  for  their  money,  had  their  fixed  hours,  and 
when  these  were  passed  with  a  minimum  of  mental 
and  physical  output,  they  came  home  and  enjoyed 


NOON  69 

themselves;  they  went  to  dances  and  theaters. 
The  housewife  was  always  on.  She  mustn't  stop. 
There  was  a  pile  of  mending  to  be  done  in  the 
evening,  or  shirts  to  make,  or  something.  Dances 
indeed ! 

Celia  sat  down  with  a  bump  on  a  chair  by  the 
window.  She  shook  her  head  over  this  outburst. 
All  office  girls  weren't  shirkers.  "  You  shouldn't 
have  married  if  you  didn't  like  keeping  house." 

Thus  attacked,  her  mind  sought  defensively  for 
extenuating  circumstances,  but  desisted  almost  at 
once  through  sheer  distaste  for  further  introspec- 
tion. She'd  been  thinking  about  herself  all*  the 
morning. 

"  Shocking  bad  habit.  I  shall  have  to  take  you 
in  hand.  You'll  get  a  nasty,  self-centered,  moody 
little  wretch.  .  .  .  Let's  see  what's  happening  in 
this  giddy  place.  Hum:  one  torn  cat,  looks  as  if 
he's  been  out  all  night;  a  family  of  sparrows;  the 
kiddies  next  door  dancing  on  Papa's  crocus,  won't 
there  be  a  shindy!  " 

She  stared  through  the  window  at  the  gardens. 

Their  corners  were  brown  and  damp,  and 
padded  in  soft  moist  masses  with  the  fallen  leaves 


7o  TEN  HOURS 

of  successive  seasons,  and  with  twigs  and  thin 
boughs  snapped  off  by  winds;  but  the  end  walls 
and  those  facing  south  blazed  golden,  and  em- 
phatic shadows  cut  the  ground  cleanly  like  blades 
or  shutters.  Spare  bushes  rocked  along  the  walls ; 
on  the  soil  were  sprawling  spaces  of  half-withered 
green,  violas  and  saxifrage,  and  other  low  plants, 
whose  sprouting  new  growth  was  not  visible  from 
this  distance.  The  daffodils  too,  an  inch  high, 
were  alike  undistinguishable. 

Ivy  covered  the  walls,  shaking  its  brown  sprays 
violently,  and  for  some  distance  bare  trees  waved, 
the  tiniest  twigs  distinct  as  a  lace-like  edging  to 
the  boughs.  Sharply  detached  from  the  horizons, 
everything  was  angular  and  harsh.  Even  the 
trees  seemed  like  metal  rods,  and  the  few  stems 
and  shoots  were  like  wire,  whipping  the  air  which 
lapped  above  the  stony  soil. 

Celia  looked  across  the  plunging  laurels  and 
privets  into  the  garden  on  the  left.  The  cat  was 
there,  the  sparrows,  and  the  children.  She 
watched  the  latter  with  interested  but  cool  eyes. 
Her  maternal  instincts  were  not  very  strongly 
developed.  She  did  not  particularly  want  to  have 


NOON  71 

children.  The  moon-faces  and  comeiy  legs  of  the 
boy  and  girl  next  door  dragged  at  no  cords  of  her 
heart.  They  were  "  jolly  little  things,  that 
was  all." 

In  the  garden  beyond  theirs  a  woman  was  at 
the  dustbin.  Presently  she  left  this  and  walked 
down  the  garden  to  the  rabbit  hutches  at  its  end. 
Celia  could  just  perceive  bounding  brown  bodies 
behind  the  wire  doors.  Another  cat  stalked  along 
the  path,  a  rough  ugly  creature  with  a  broad  face 
and  misanthropical  eyes.  The  sparrows  were 
chattering  shrilly,  whirring  up  to  walls  where  they 
stood  round-bodied  and  stiff  against  the  shimmer 
of  light,  descending  again  to  the  lawns,  and  hop- 
ping and  pecking  amid  the  grass.  A  train  whistle 
split  the  air;  a  train  rattled  by. 

"Hum!"  Celia  ejaculated  again,  "and  that's 
that.  A  fearfully  exciting  scene !  " 

The  rounded  contours  of  the  downs,  the  soft- 
ness of  the  plowed  fields,  the  depths  of  pine- 
woods  perfumed  by  the  yielding  beds  of  cones  and 
needles,  the  gentle  fall  of  meadows  to  the  hamlets, 
and  the  sweet  lush  grasses,  tangled  and  drenched : 
these  hovered  beyond  the  aggressive  suburb  and 


72  TEN  HOURS 

she  sighed.  Barnham  was  so  rich  and  large, 
Wykeham  so  meager.  Look  at  these  grass  plots, 
tufted,  and  with  pulpy  trodden  spaces;  look  at  the 
next  door  garden;  it  was  shamefully  kept,  paper 
on  the  beds,  the  white  brittle  stalks  of  uprooted 
flowers  scattered  about  the  grass,  the  rambler 
roses  casting  long  trails  over  the  paths,  withered 
chrysanthemums  and  snap-dragons  raggedly  sway- 
ing, all  despite  the  sunlight,  melancholy  and  mean. 

She  shivered.  Recurrently  during  these  last 
few  weeks  Barnham  had  come  before  her  mental 
vision,  oppressing  her  with  longing  for  its  easy 
flight  of  hill  and  its  smokeless  air,  intensifying 
into  positive  dislike  what  had  hitherto  been  merely 
indifference  to  the  suburb.  In  her  dreams  it  was 
always  Barnham  which  surrounded  her,  never 
Wykeham. 

With  an  effort  she  roused  herself.  She  ought  to 
live  in  the  slums  for  a  little  while.  .  .  . 

In  a  month  or  two  Robert  would  have  his  holi- 
days and  then  they  would  go  away.  Her  eyes 
sparkled.  She  sniffed;  the  salt  sea  air,  the  wet  sea 
fogs,  seemed  to  steal  to  her  across  the  town  and 
hang  on  the  warm  air  of  the  room  with  their 


NOON  73 

haunting  rumors  of  surf,  and  their  recalled  loveli- 
ness of  dwindling  foam.  Beautiful. 

She  sat,  staring  dreamily  at  the  woman  in  the 
next  garden  but  one.  Those  ghostly  cliffs,  and 
yellow  sands,  and  windy  caves  faded  suddenly; 
the  woman  was  hanging  out  some  handkerchiefs 
and  Celia's  keen  eyes  detected  holes.  Fancy  hang- 
ing such  shabby  old  things  in  the  garden ! 

"  I  wouldn't  show  them  off  at  any  rate.  She 
henpecks  that  poor  man.  I  believe  she  secures  all 
the  cash  and  just  allows  him  so  much  for  tobacco. 
If  I  were  a  man  I  wouldn't  put  up  with  it,  but  he 
looks  a  mean-spirited  little  worm  !  Sorry,  I  didn't 
mean  to  be  so  harsh." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  stood  up.  "  I'd 
better  go  and  lay  dinner  now;  five  minutes,  and 
Robert  will  be  here.  Thank  goodness  the  tooth's 
stopped." 

She  tripped  to  the  door,  casting  a  glance  over 
her  shoulder  at  the  mirror  and  the  reflection  in  it 
of  her  head,  fluffy  on  a  stem-like  neck. 


CHAPTER  IV 
ROBERT 

ROBERT  came  home  just  before  two.  He  put  his 
hat  and  coat  on  the  hall-stand,  glanced  at  the 
dining-room  door  behind  which  he  could  hear 
Celia  moving,  and  then  went  up  to  the  morning- 
room.  It  was  more  pleasant  to  sit  till  dinner-time 
over  a  coal  fire  than  over  a  gas  one. 

He  found  the  morning-room  empty.  Appre- 
hensively his  glance  wandered  round;  then,  his 
eyes  mild  with  relief,  he  walked  to  the  fire  and 
stood  there  whistling  softly,  and  with  the  aspect 
of  one  who  has  slipped  off  a  burden.  He  thought 
of  the  MSS.  It  was  three  weeks  since  he  sent 
them  up.  Surely  they  would  have  been  returned 
by  now  if.  ...  He'd  be  satisfied  if  only  one  was 
taken.  It  would  show  Celia  that  he  had  it  in  him. 
She  didn't  believe  that,  he  knew  she  didn't.  .  .  . 
The  one  on  "  The  Train  "  was  jolly  good. 
74 


ROBERT  75 

He  experienced  a  little  thrill  of  hopeful  expecta- 
tion. Again  he  glanced  round  the  room,  ap- 
proving the  blue  wall  paper,  the  brown  wood,  the 
blue  casement  curtains,  the  fat  arm  chairs,  and  the 
lines  of  books.  Hopefulness  colored  everything 
he  surveyed.  The  sun  was  shining;  a  three  hours 
cycle  ride  was  before  him;  from  the  atmosphere 
of  the  hall  he  deduced  that  Celia  had  had  the  oven 
on;  and  the  manuscript  envelope  w  s  not  visible. 
His  whistle  grew  louder. 

Robert  Jennings  was  nearly  thirty.  He  ap- 
peared less  tall  than  he  was  because  of  the  stout- 
ness of  his  figure,  a  stoutness  which  displeased  him. 
His  generous  waist  line  and  the  fatness  of  his 
shoulders  were,  he  considered,  more  suitable  for  a 
man  of  forty.  Almost  as  unsatisfactory  to  him 
were  his  long  face,  his  sober  eyes,  his  rather  snub 
nose,  and  his  immature  mouth.  He  looked  like 
a  pig,  or  a  podgy  baby.  How  Celia  had  ever  come 
to  have  him,  he  could  not  imagine.  Girls  liked  a 
good-looking  fellow,  and  he  was  ugly. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  humility  which  had  appealed 
to  Celia,  this  and  other  physical  attractions  which 
he  was  ignorant  he  possessed.  His  eyes,  for 


76  TEN  HOURS 

instance,  were  good,  and  so,  too,  was  the  shape  of 
his  head.  He  carried  his  solid  body  with  a  de- 
liberation which  was  not  without  dignity,  and  the 
repose  of  his  movements  was  pleasant. 

Even  his  solemnity  had  its  value,  Celia  having 
a  glance  as  sharp  as  a  rapier  for  the  detection  of 
"  cheekiness,"  and  a  crushing  brusqueness  of  man- 
ner towards  "  puppies."  She  had  found  Robert 
modest,  unassuming,  and  reverential.  If  his 
plainness  deterred  her  from  placing  him  on  that 
secret  pedestal  as  the  dreamt-of  Prince  Charming, 
she  would  not  admit  the  fact.  She  refused  to 
measure  Robert  by  his  minimum  of  good  looks. 
"He  can't  help  it,  poor  man!  Handsome  is — ! 
He's  really  very  nice!  As  if  I'd  marry  a  man 
because  I  liked  the  shape  of  his  nose !  Why,  my 
own's  like  a  button !  " 

Nevertheless,  his  unromantic  appearance  had 
frustrated  the  growth  of  that  capacity  for  ideal- 
istic and  unreasoning  worship,  for  that  manifesta- 
tion of  homage  and  awe,  which  lay  dormant  in 
her.  With  Celia,  passion  would  be  preluded,  if 
not  by  fear,  at  least  by  a  tremendous  respect.  The 
knowledge  that  one  whom  she  considered  high 


ROBERT  77 

above  her  in  status  and  beauty  had  stooped  to  love 
her  would  alone  be  sufficient  to  throw  her  off  her 
balance.  Robert  inspired  no  such  emotional  ex- 
perience; no  illusive  glamor  covered  him;  no 
fascinating  speculations  as  to  his  character  were 
possible.  He  was  merely  a  good  young  man  who 
showed  to  better  advantage  in  common-place  sur- 
roundings than  on  a  pedestal. 
So  Celia  classified  him. 

II 

He  now  stood  listening  to  the  sounds  in  the 
house,  and  to  the  sound  of  wind  and  birds  in  the 
garden,  his  equanimity  pronounced;  his  figure  up- 
right and  immobile. 

A  slow  shuffle  of  feet  became  audible  on  the 
staircase,  and  he  looked  at  the  door.  It  opened 
and  father  came  in. 

"  Ah — good  morning,  Robert." 

"  Good  morning,"  Robert  nodded  and  smiled. 
Father  smiled  back  and  advancing  to  the  hearth- 
rug took  up  a  position  there  with  a  somewhat 
oratorical  air. 

"  And  how  are  things?  "  he  inquired,  fixing  his 


78  TEN  HOURS 

son-in-law  with  a  protuberant  and  slightly  water- 
ing eye. 

"  They're  all  right,"  Robert  replied,  knowing 
the  general  term  to  refer  particularly  to  office 
matters.  "Quite  all  right,  thanks.  And  you? 
All  right?" 

"  Yes.  I  am  not  in  what  I  believe  is  called  the 
*  rosy '  but  I  mustn't  grumble.  I'm  getting  old." 

Father  laughed,  a  thin  cackle  which  broke  forth 
high  up  in  his  head  and  which  was  entirely  without 
muscular  expression. 

Robert  laughed  too.  Encouraged  by  this  ap- 
preciation father  put  his  hands  behind  him,  palms 
turned  firewards,  rocked  up  and  down  on  his  heels, 
and  continued  in  a  still  more  monotonous  drawl. 

"  I  have  been  combining  the  useful  with  the 
artistic;  that  is  to  say,  pricking  biscuits  and  writing 
some  verses.  Quite  a  small  thing  on  my  domestic 
duties.  Celia  suggested  it." 

He  ceased  with  a  jerk.  He  had  been  about  to 
mention  the  return  of  Robert's  MSS.  but  remem- 
bered Celia's  warning  given  just  before  he  came 
upstairs.  The  narrowness  of  his  escape  dis- 
ordered him.  He  stared  into  space. 


ROBERT  79 

"Oh,  have  you?"  said  Robert.  "Rather 
a  good  idea.  Can  I  see  them,  or  hear 
them?" 

Father  laughed  again,  self-consciously.  He 
glanced  sideways  at  Robert  with  an  almost  spright- 
ly expression.  "  I  found  the  muse  flowed  freely," 
he  stated  and  slid  a  hand  in  his  pocket.  "  I  was 
reminded  of  *  Oh  Duty — who  art  a  light  to  guide, 
a  rod  to  check  the  erring  and  reprove.'  It  was 
the  word  *  rod  '  which — ah — which  inspired  me, 
if  such  a  poor  result  can  be  called  the  fruit 
of  inspiration." 

"  Dunno  what  else  it  is,"  Robert  said,  his  face 
perfectly  blank  and  stodgy.  He  hoped  to  good- 
ness father  hadn't  run  to  length ! 

As  the  poet  smoothed  out  a  used  envelope 
Robert  stared  at  him,  noticing  the  rakish  tilt  of 
the  velour  cap  and  the  patches  of  flour  on  the 
velvet  coat.  His  brain  seemed  to  stop  working; 
a  pleasant  languor  stole  over  him.  He  was  con- 
scious of  the  comfortable  chair,  the  warmth  of  the 
fire,  and  the  colorless  haze  of  light  streaming 
through  the  window.  He  saw  the  little  golden 
hairs  of  father's  brows  standing  out  over  the 


8o  TEN  HOURS 

puffed  lids;  very  thin  and  far   away  he   heard 

father  reading. 

"  O  Duty,  in  my  days  of  manhood's  prime, 
Not  wholly  mean  and  ne'er  effeminate, 

What  are  you  now  in  this  slow  present-time, 
Why  bring  you  me  unto  a  woman's  state  ?  " 

The  voice  stopped.  Robert  roused  himself  and 
said,  "That's  jolly  good;  best  you've  ever  done, 
father.  I'll  type  it  for  you  when  it's  finished;  if  the 
rest  is  as  good  as  that!  " 

uHa!  ha!  You  natter  me,  Robert."  His 
laugh  was  more  than  usually  cracked;  his  hands 
shook;  embarrassed  pleasure  kept  his  eyes  from 
Robert. 

"  Jolly  good,"  the  latter  repeated. 

There  was  a  pause.  Father,  pretending  to  be 
doing  nothing,  furtively  studied  the  envelope. 
The  bang  of  the  oven  door  came  up  the  stairs. 

Presently  father  looked  round.  His  eyes 
searched  Robert  rather  vaguely;  then  his  glance 
became  fixed.  He  waggled  a  finger  in  the  direction 
of  Robert's  chin. 

"  You  haven't  got  the  mauve  tie  on  to-day  then. 
Why  have  you  shed  your  glory?  " 


ROBERT  8 1 

"  Oh,  the  chief's  son's  buried  to-day,  you  know. 
I  told  you  last  night;  thought  I  wouldn't  blaze  a 
color  like  that  up  there." 

"  Ah,  of  course  not,  no."  Father's  vivacity 
withered.  He  looked  with  painful  intentness  at 
nothing,  his  brows  very  arched.  Robert  looked 
at  the  fire.  There  was  a  long  pause. 

Ill 

Then  Celia  came  in. 

"  Hallo,  Robert,"  she  said. 

Robert  echoed  "  Hallo."  His  face  was  ex- 
tremely wooden;  his  brain  said  to  him,  "  Doesn't 
she  look  pretty?  " 

"  Everything's  ready,"  Celia  continued,  "  Just 
waiting  for  Gwennie.  You're  not  changing  before 
dinner  then?"  she  added. 

"  No,  it  won't  take  a  minute." 

She  smiled  at  them  both,  and  then  looked  at  her 
husband  with  an  odd  waiting  expression,  one  con- 
siderate, reticent  now  but  betraying  eagerness  to 
be  expansive. 

Robert  missed  its  shades  as  he  missed  a  good 
many  things.  To  him  she  appeared  absolutely 


82  TEN  HOURS 

candid,  and  fragrant:  revealed  as  a  blown  rose; 
not  with  the  sealed  seductiveness  of  the  bud.  Far 
as  he  was  from  thinking  her  shallow,  he  neverthe- 
less considered  her  transparent.  Her  briskness, 
her  matter-of-fact,  independent  manner  were  so 
habitual  that  he  imagined  them  to  be  the  very  es- 
sence of  her  character,  just  as  he  imagined  the 
contradicting  wistfulness  of  her  eyes  and  mouth  to 
be  purely  accidental.  His  conviction  that  she  was 
without  romance  or  sentiment,  dreams,  or  emo- 
tional complexities  of  any  kind  made  him  shy  of 
revealing  his  own  depths.  He  was  sentimental. 
He  knew  it.  But  he  was  also  self-conscious.  He 
dreaded  her  good-natured  ridicule,  he  loved  her 
little  verbal  thrusts,  but  he  was  afraid  of  making 
them  malicious  which  now  they  never  were.  Often 
he  wanted  to  caress  her,  to  be  caressed.  He  would 
have  liked  her  to  stroke  his  hair  and  flirt  with  him, 
but  his  tongue,  his  eyes,  his  hands,  were  rebels; 
they  refused  to  obey  his  impulses;  they  seemed  to 
be  entirely  without  powers  of  volition.  To  say  to 
Celia,  when  she  was  looking  so  business-like,  and 
natural,  and  easy,  "I  wish  you'd  stroke  my  hair," 
this  was  a  madness,  contemplation  of  which  made 


ROBERT  83 

him  shrink.  She  would  stare,  laugh,  shake  her 
bright  head,  and  exclaim,  "  Gracious !  You  are 
spoony!  Dear  little  boy,  does  it  want  to  be 
petted  then  ?  "  She  would  not  understand  that  the 
fatuous  request  was  the  only  outward  expression 
he  could  manage  of  his  towering  love  for  her. 
The  more  he  wanted  to  hold  her,  the  more  rigid 
his  body  became,  and  the  blanker  his  face. 

Celia  did  not  know  this.  Both  were  deceived 
by  the  other's  superficial  aspect,  an  aspect  which 
each  elaborated  through  fear  of  having  if:  pierced 
and  the  underlying  softness  exposed  to  misunder- 
standing. "  I'm  sure  to  let  Robert  see  I'd  like 
him  to  kiss  and  fuss  me,"  Celia  thought.  "  If  he 
doesn't  want  to  do  it  I'm  not  going  to  force  him !  " 

"  She'd  think  you  a  maudlin  fool.  She  wants 
you  to  be  a  good  pal.  She  doesn't  like  being 
mauled."  Thus  Robert. 

Now  he  looked  at  her  stolidly. 

"  You'll  have  a  lovely  day  for  your  ride,"  she 
said.  "  Back  about  six,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  put  you  up  something  to  eat.  Awfully  risky 
I  call  it,  having  tea  on  a  gate  this  time  of  year. 


84  TEN  HOURS 

But  you  know.  If  I  did  it;  this  tooth !  It'd  start 
dancing  at  once.  It's  been  going  strong  all 
the  morning." 

"Has  it?"  Concern  drove  through  his 
phlegmatic  face,  it  thrilled  his  voice. 

Celia  kindled.     Her  eyes  dwelt  softly  on  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  my  own  fault,"  she  said,  hastening 
to  disclaim  martyrdom.  "  I  ought  to  have  it  out. 
It's  stopped  now,  thank  goodness." 

Words  of  sympathy  and  love  babbled  in  Rob- 
ert's heart  and  swelled  to  his  lips.  And  at  once 
the  headlong  impulse  to  hide  his  solicitude  gripped 
him.  "Of  course  you  must  have  it  out;  it's  silly 
to  wait."  Carefully  he  copied  her  careless 
manner. 

She  was  conscious  of  a  chill.  "  Yes,  it  is,"  she 
agreed,  her  eyes  widening  a  little,  her  voice  flat. 
"  Awfully  silly,  but  one  always  makes  a  fuss  over 
a  little  thing." 

"  You  don't  make  a  fuss,"  Robert  said 
dispassionately. 

"  I'm  sure  she  doesn't,"  father  confirmed. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  a  wry  smile 
on  her  lips.  "Well,  it  hasn't  prevented  my  having 


ROBERT  85 

the  oven  on,  anyway,"  she  said,  her  voice  brisk 
again. 

Neither  answered  her  at  once.  She  wondered 
whether  they  would  take  her  speech  as  a  simple 
statement  of  fact  or  suspect  it  to  be  an  allusion  to 
the  fortitude  expected  of  her.  They  accepted  it 
as  the  former,  and  father  who  spoke  next,  only 
seemed  to  be  answering  it.  As  his  second  sentence 
proved,  he  was  intent  on  his  own  achievements, 
not  on  Celia's  He  observed  casually,  "  I've  just 
been  reading  my  literary  effort  to  Robert.  He  has 
been  kind  enough  to  approve  it." 

"  It  was  jolly  good,"  Robert  said  monotonously. 

"  I'm  longing  to  hear  it,"  Celia  exclaimed. 
"  But  wait  till  after  dinner  when  there's  more 
time.  Then  you  must  read  it  to  me." 

A  creaking  of  the  front  gate  was  followed  by 
the  ringing  of  the  house  bell. 

"  There's  Gwennie,"  said  Celia,  and  ran 
downstairs. 

IV 

She  opened  the  hall-door.  On  the  step  stood 
Gwennie  looking  narrowly  at  the  road.  She 
turned  when  the  door  opened  and  her  black  eyes 


86  TEN  HOURS 

smiled  at  Celia.  Without  speaking  she  stepped 
into  the  hall. 

"  Here  you  are  then !  Robert's  in,  and  every- 
thing's ready."  Celia  shut  the  door.  Her  voice 
was  studiously  easy  but  her  eyes  were  sharp  and 
at  the  same  time  baffled.  They  scanned  Gwennie 
defensively.  Though  she  was  not  aware  of  it,  her 
attitude  was  more  upright  and  authoritative  than 
it  had  been  all  the  morning.  When  Gwennie 
smiled  at  her  still  without  speaking  she  smiled  back 
indulgently  as  from  an  altitude  of  accumulated 
years  and  wisdom.  Her  smile  was  intended  to 
show  that  she  saw  nothing  in  Gwennie  except 
extreme  youth;  no  unusual  prettiness;  certainly  no 
personality.  When  she  moved  towards  the  kitchen 
it  was  with  a  composed  and  assured  air. 

"  Take  your  things  off  and  then  call  the  others," 
she  said. 

Gwennie  said  "  All  right."  She  walked  upstairs 
putting  her  foot  down  firmly,  unbuttoning  her  coat 
with  leisurely  fingers,  looking  straight  before  her, 
eyes  vague,  mouth  serene. 


PART  II 
GWENNIE 

The  idle  life  I  lead 

Is  like  a  pleasant  sleep, 

Wherein  I  rest  and  heed 

The  dreams  that  by  me  sweep." 
ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


CHAPTER  V 
DINNER 

THE  Jennings  always  had  breakfast  in  the  kitchen, 
lunch  and  dinner  in  the  dining-room,  and  tea  in 
the  morning-room.  On  Saturday,  dinner  was  at 
midday  and  then  tea  and  supper  were  the  meals 
had  upstairs.  This  variety  was  observed  on  ac- 
count of  the  fires  and  convenience.  Celia  let  the 
kitchen  fire  out  at  one  o'clock,  except  on  Saturdays 
when  father  bathed.  It  was  easier  to  light  the 
gas-fire  in  the  front  room  and  carry  hot  meals 
there  than  to  take  them  up  to  the  dining-room. 
But  for  the  presence  of  father's  bed  the  dining- 
room  would  have  been  used  consistently  as  a 
living  room. 

Father  slept  downstairs  partly  because  it  re- 
duced his  traffic  on  the  stairs,  thus  benefiting  his 
heart  and  his  rheumatism,  and  partly  because  all 
the  other  rooms  were  occupied.  The  front  attic 
alone  was  empty,  but  then  its  position  made  it 
unsuitable  for  father's  use. 


90  TEN  HOURS 

A  high  green  screen  patterned  with  green 
dragons  was  drawn  modestly  round  the  bed.  The 
rest  of  the  room  was  furnished  with  a  light  oak 
dining-room  suite,  arm-chairs,  and  two  book-cases 
with  glass  doors.  The  bay  window  commanded  a 
view  of  the  road  and  the  houses  opposite.  Celia, 
from  the  head  of  the  table,  could  see  the  privet 
hedge,  and  the  three  laurels  scraping  each  other 
in  their  peevish  movements;  she  could  see  the 
spikes  of  the  railings,  and  the  hard-edged  houses 
holding  off  the  sky.  The  scene  made  no  imme- 
diate impression  on  her,  but  often  at  night  she 
would  dream  of  the  outlook  from  the  home  win- 
dows at  Barnham:  the  rutted  roadway  with  its 
screen  of  Scotch  firs;  the  orchard  trees  beyond, 
and,  leaping  above  them,  the  eastern  sky  from 
whence  the  dawn  stole  to  her  across  the  still  silent 
and  shadowy  fields.  She  never  dreamed  of  the 
railings,  the  laurels,  the  houses.  Yet,  in  the  day- 
time, it  was  only  occasionally  that  she  thought 
of  Barnham. 

Now,  as  she  served  dinner,  her  mind  was  en- 
tirely occupied  with  the  tenderness  of  the  meat,  the 
flouriness  of  the  potatoes,  and  the  freshness  of  the 


DINNER  91 

brussels-sprouts.  She  told  Robert  all  about 
Lavender  Road,  including  father  and  Gwennie  in 
the  conversation  with  quick  turns  of  the  head. 

Robert  nodded  by  way  of  response,  and  once 
or  twice  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  plate  to  look 
unwinkingly  at  her.  Father  attended  solely  to  his 
dinner,  transforming  it  by  his  almost  clerical  sol- 
emnity into  a  kind  of  ritual;  one,  too,  of  a  pleasant 
nature  judging  by  the  unctuousness  of  his  mastica- 
tion. Frequently  his  eyes  roved  to  the  bottle  of 
ale  standing  near  Celia.  She  had  grudgingly 
poured  him  out  one  glass  and  there  was  one  left. 
This  he  would  have  for  supper.  His  gaze  now 
was  inexpressive  but  lingering. 

Gwennie  looked  chiefly  at  her  food  and  at  the 
space  of  screen  level  with  her  eyes.  Once  or 
twice,  however,  she  sent  a  deliberate  inscrutable 
glance  at  Celia  or  Robert. 

She  was  nearly  seventeen,  tall,  with  a  long  full 
throat,  and  with  round  arms  and  breasts  defined 
by  a  skimpy,  buff-colored  jumper.  The  thick  black 
hair  ending  a  little  below  her  ears,  and  the  fringe 
covering  her  brows,  accentuated  the  breadth  and 
shortness  of  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  set  well- 


92  TEN  HOURS 

apart.  They  were  always  half-closed  and  seemed 
on  superficial  inspection  to  be  vacant  and  dull,  but 
a  second  glance  sometimes  surprised  a  glint,  an 
intelligence,  which  was  so  swiftly  subdued  that 
their  momentary  existence  seemed  a  matter  for 
doubt,  and  was  often  explained  as  an  illusion  of 
the  spectator's  brain.  Her  short  broad  nose  was 
much  nearer  her  eyes  than  her  mouth.  In  the  long 
upper  lip  was  a  perpendicular  groove;  the  lips 
were  scarlet,  and  their  curves  sharp  cut;  the  chin 
was  very  broad.  When  she  smiled  two  deep  dim- 
ples came  in  her  cheeks,  and  she  showed  small 
even  teeth.  She  sat  comfortably,  drawing  support 
from  the  chair  back,  the  table,  and  the  rungs  of 
the  chair,  yet  with  a  certain  sensuous  grace  in  the 
boneless  subsidence  of  her  body.  Her  laziness 
was  so  great  that  she  would  not  even  move  her 
head.  When  she  wanted  to  see  anything  she 
turned  her  eyes  only. 

To  Celia,  all  vitality  and  swiftness,  this  immo- 
bility was  supremely  aggravating.  As  she  talked, 
her  eyes  wandered  to  Gwennie,  and  confronted 
with  that  lusterless  fixity  of  gaze,  that  curving 
body  surrendered  to  complete  repose,  she  was 


DINNER  93 

occupied  once  more  with  the  insoluble  problem: 
was  Gwennie  really  inert,  unthinking,  childish,  or 
did  her  mind,  active  all  this  time,  receive  clear 
impressions,  her  ears  detect  every  shade  of 
tone,  her  eyes  miss  no  movement?  What  was 
Gwennie  ? 

Presently,  Robert,  too,  looked  at  the  young 
girl.  He  was  without  suspicion.  To  him  her  out- 
ward simplicity  was  a  true  manifestation  of  char- 
acter. He  was  incapable  of  seeing  this  silence, 
this  sleepiness,  as  a  possible  mask.  He  thought 
Gwennie  looked  "  out  of  it."  She  always  did. 
Of  course  the  things  he  and  Celia  discussed  could 
not  interest  a  child.  She  must  find  Uncle  and 
Aunt  thunderingly  prosy.  And  father — in  this 
flood  of  light,  all  the  puffiness,  rheuminess,  and 
vacillation  of  father's  face  were  inexorably  appar- 
ent. She  must  think  father  antediluvian!  A  stir 
of  sympathy  awoke  in  him. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  this  morning, 
Gwen?  "  he  asked. 

Celia  glanced  at  him  and  then  at  Gwennie. 
Unconsciously  her  brows  arched.  As  she  waited 
for  Gwennie's  answer  she  was  again  aware  of  that 


94  TEN  HOURS 

baffled  sense  of  being  on  strange  ground,  distrust- 
ful of  its  apparent  openness,  and  yet  ashamed  of 
her  distrust. 

"  Oh,  nothing  much."  Gwennie  spoke  through 
scarcely  parted  lips  in  a  voice  that  had  little  more 
volume  than  a  breath.  Too  much  energy  was  re- 
quired for  a  throaty  voice !  "  We're  not  very 
busy." 

"So  I  suppose  you  sit  and  drink  tea?"  Rob- 
ert suggested. 

Gwennie  giggled.  "I  only  have  one  cup — 'bout 
'leven." 

She  slurred  her  words  into  indistinctness.  Her 
eyes,  drowsily  smiling,  rested  on  Robert's  which 
were  also  smiling. 

Celia  turned  to  father.    "  More  meat,  father?" 

"  Just  a  trifle,  please." 

As  she  served  him  she  listened  to  Robert. 

"How's  that  red-haired  girl  getting  on?"  he 
was  saying.  "  The  one  you  don't  get  on  with. 
What  was  it  she  called  you  ?  " 

"  Sh'  didn't  call  me  anything;  said  there  was 
too  much  fav'ritism.  She  meant  me.  I  haven't 
seen  her  lately." 


DINNER  95 

"  Cessation  of  hostilities,  I  suppose,"  Robert 
murmured.  "  You  couldn't  have  a  real  good 
'  hate,'  Gwen;  you're  too  lazy." 

Gwennie  giggled  again.  She  sent  him  a  side- 
long glance  and  then  bent  her  eyes  on  her  plate. 

Sharp  little  reflections  stung  Celia.  "  He  just 
nods  when  I  talk,  but  he  can  chaff  her.  I  can't 
think  how  he  can  find  her  amusing.  I  suppose  he 
thinks  her  pretty.  That  covers  a  multitude  of 
sins.  And  if  she  smiles  like  that  at  him  of  course 
he  thinks  she  thinks  him  clever.  Simpleton !  " 

A  tide  of  self-reproach  drowned  these  thoughts. 
"  You  are  a  mean  beast,  always  snapping  at  some- 
thing. He  wants  to  make  Gwen  happy,  and  of 
course  she's  what  she  seems.  It's  so  silly  to  think 
she's  posing.  She's  just  a  child  and  she  doesn't 
know  there's  anything — well,  cheeky  in  her  way  of 
smiling.  I  don't  know  why  you  should  think  she's 
subtle.  Ally  wasn't." 

This  flurry  of  self-judgment  lasted  a  second; 
then  it  crystallized  into  speech. 

"  Gwen's  not  lazy;  she's  only  resting.  You 
have  to  look  alive  at  the  office,  don't  you,  Gwen? 
Of  course  you  want  to  be  quiet  here." 


96  TEN  HOURS 

She  smiled  at  Gwennie  and  then  at  Robert. 
"  Anybody  would  seem  quiet  next  to  a  chatterbox 
like  me,"  she  added. 

Robert  regarded  her  gravely.  "  Oh  you — 
you're  inconsequent;  mere  cackle." 

Celia  grimaced  at  him.  She  stood  up.  "  No 
mince-pie  for  that!  None  of  your  impertinence! 
.  .  .  Father  marked  all  round  the  edge.  He  did 
it  beautifully,  bless  him !  " 

"A  great  task  in  which  to  excel,"  father 
commented. 

She  swung  out  of  the  room.  It  made  it  so  much 
nicer  when  they  all  talked  instead  of  sitting  there, 
glumly  munching ! 

When  she  entered  the  kitchen  she  was  only  half 
aware  of  its  hot  stale  smell.  As  she  took  from  the 
oven  the  mince-pie  and  the  pudding  she  approved 
their  color,  and  cast  a  glance  at  the  plate  of  bis- 
cuits. Those  round  ones  were  for  Mr.  Hyde's 
tea.  The  less  perfect  shapes  did  for  the  family. 
Mr.  Hyde  would  be  at  home  soon  after  three;  he 
lunched  in  town. 

A  slight  heat  pricked  her  skin  and  for  a  moment 
she  heart  beat  unevenly.  When  she  went  from 


DINNER  97 

the  brilliant  kitchen  into  the  dim  chill  passage,  she 
saw  no  outlines,  only  a  well  of  brown  shadow  with 
a  bar  of  silver — the  glass  of  the  hall-door — at  its 
end.  Her  mind  was  like  that:  an  empty  well  with 
light  hovering  distantly  above  it;  a  light  unnam- 
able,  vague,  and  not  to  be  explained. 
She  entered  the  dining-room. 

II 

Sharp  and  shadowless,  the  room  lay  before  her. 
She  saw  Gwennie  lolling  back  in  her  chair,  her 
hands  clasped  on  the  cloth,  her  almost  closed  eyes 
smiling  at  Robert,  her  mouth  closed,  but  curled 
and  broadened  in  a  smile.  Robert  was  looking 
at  her,  not  actually  reflecting  her  expression, 
but  friendly  and  interested.  Father  was  drink- 
ing. 

Thoughts  stormed  Celia's  mind,  and  emotions 
her  heart.  There  was  intimacy  and  understanding 
in  the  steady  regard  of  Robert  and  Gwennie. 
They  might  have  just  shared  a  joke  or  a  confi- 
dence, or,  worse  still,  they  might  neither  have 
spoken  since  Celia  left  the  room,  but  simply  estab- 
lished and  found  sufficient  a  silent  communication. 


98  TEN  HOURS 

They  seemed  oblivious  to  Father,  engrossed  in 

their  crossing  glances. 

As  jealousy  thrust  this  point  into  her,  common 
sense  no  less  rapidly  planted  a  defensive  one. 
Gwennie  smiled  like  that  because  Robert's  stare 
embarrassed  her;  she  felt  self-conscious.  Rob- 
ert had  this  habit  of  looking  absently  at  peo- 
pie 

But  there  was  no  preoccupation  in  his  gaze; 
Gwennie  did  not  look  self-conscious,  but  madden- 
ingly, languorously  at  ease,  and  content.  .  .  . 

Celia  set  the  things  on  the  table.  "  There  1  I'm 
expecting  this  to  be  all  right.  I  used  heaps 
of  lard." 

"  Looks  all  right,"  Robert  said.  "  When  are 
we  going  to  have  a  boiled  pudding — roly-poly,  or 
apple,  or  something  like  that?  " 

Celia's  brow  puckered.  "  Would  you  rather 
have  that  than  this?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  only  meant  we  haven't  had  one  for 
a  long  time,  and  we've  had  a  lot  of  these." 

He  nodded  at  the  tapioca. 

Celia's  eyes,  large  and  without  expression, 
moved  in  the  same  direction.  "  I  suppose  we 


DINNER  99 

have.  I  didn't  know  you  were  tired  of  them. 
They're  more  digestible  than  suet  puddings;  not 
so  heavy  for  father.  Still — I  always  like  you  to 
say  what  you  want." 

Robert  did  not  answer.  He  received  his  por- 
tion with  perfect  contentment,  having  made  his 
remark  with  no  sense  of  ill-usage.  It  did  not  for 
one  moment  occur  to  him  that,  Celia  having  been 
over  the  oven  for  an  hour,  that  remark  was  tact- 
less and  even  ungracious. 

Gwennie,  however,  possessing  the  average 
amount  of  feminine  perception,  saw  his  maladroit- 
ness  and  its  effect  on  Celia,  unostentatious  as  this 
last  was.  Celia  might  hide  her  vexation  and  her 
sense  of  the  ineptitude  and  density  of  her  family, 
but  Gwennie  realized  her  emotions,  not  so  much 
through  intuition,  as  through  knowledge  of  what 
her  own  feelings  would  be  in  the  same  circum- 
stances. When  she  thought  at  all  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  generalize.  She  attributed  to  Celia  the 
irritation  she  would  have  felt  herself,  but  she  was 
not  moved  to  sympathy.  On  the  contrary,  she 
found  humor  in  Robert's  innocent  sting.  She 
laughed. 


ioo  TEN  HOURS 

All  three  turned  to  her.  Irrepressible  giggles 
seized  her.  She  humped -her  shoulders  and  shook 
herself  slightly;  her  face  became  scarlet  with  her 
efforts  to  regain  sobriety. 

Robert  and  Father  looked  owlishly  uncompre- 
hending. Celia,  piercing  unerringly  to  the  cause 
of  this  mirth,  flushed  and  then  grew  pale.  Her 
mouth  tightened.  Now  her  eyes  were  hard  as 
crystals. 

"Tell  us  the  joke,  Gwennie,"  she  said.  "I 
told  you  she  wasn't  lazy,  Robert.  She's  far  more 
intelligent  than  any  of  us.  We  haven't  seen  any- 
thing to  laugh  at  yet,  but  she  has.  You  might  take 
pity  on  our, — our  obtuseness,  Gwen,  and  tell  us 
where  the  humor  is." 

Her  chin  was  up,  her  lip  curled.  Her  eyes 
struck  Gwennie's  like  blades.  Underneath  her 
soft  skin  her  bones  seemed  rigid  as  steel. 

Gwennie  stopped  laughing  but  she  did  not  look 
abashed.  Naively  she  pressed  her  hand  on  her 
hot  cheek. 

Celia  did  not  repeat  her  challenge.  She  turned 
disdainfully  to  father.  "  Is  there  plenty  of  mince- 
meat in  your  piece,  father?  That's  right.  .  .  . 


DINNER  101 

I'm  longing  to  see  that  verse.  I  suppose  you'll  do 
the  rest  this  afternoon?  " 

She  heard  but  did  not  attend  to  father's  reply. 
Her  eyes  went  to  Robert.  He  looked  uncom- 
fortable. As  she  studied  him  his  glance  roved 
apprehensively  to  Gwennie  as  if  he  feared  to  find 
her  tearful  with  mortification. 

Of  course  he  took  Gwennie's  part!  He  didn't 
see  how  rude  Gwennie  was;  he  didn't  care  if  Celia 
was  laughed  at;  it  was  Gwennie's  feelings  that 
mattered. 

She  ate  fiercely,  the  pastry  like  ash  in  her  mouth, 
the  pudding  tasteless.  In  her  annoyance  she  for- 
got to  bite  only  on  the  side  where  the  tooth  was 
not,  and  at  once,  sunken  in  the  hot  pudding,  it 
lunged  into  fiery,  racking  protest. 

Ill 

Robert  had  detected  the  edge  in  her  voice,  had 
seen  the  animosity  of  her  eyes,  but  he  could  think 
of  no  adequate  reason  for  such  anger.  He  was 
innocent  of  any  subtle  alliance  with  Gwennie. 
The  admiration  and  enjoyment  Celia  read  into 
his  glance  were  absent  from  his  heart.  To  Gwen- 


102  TEN  HOURS 

nie  he  was  a  man  and  therefore  one  on  whom  to 
bestow  smiles  and  dimples,  but  to  Robert  Gwennie 
was  not  a  woman.  He  was  blind  to  the  precocity 
of  her  regard.  She  was  a  jolly  kid — that  was  all. 
He  did  not  even  think  her  very  pretty  since  he 
thought  Celia  lovely  and  aunt  and  niece  were  most 
dissimilar.  Celia  fretted  by  pain,  unaccustomed 
weariness  and  inexplicable  unrest,  distorted  his 
kindly  friendliness  into  a  sexual  interest  which 
Robert  was  quite  incapable  of  feeling  for  any 
woman  but  his  wife.  That  Gwennie  should  be 
viewed  as  its  object  was  an  inconceivable  thing 
which  would  fairly  have  stunned  him  had  he 
recognized  its  existence  in  Celia's  mind. 

Now,  a  few  minutes  having  passed  since  Celia 
spoke,  his  thoughts  slid  away  from  the  material 
objects  about  him  and  played  among  fascinating 
possibilities.  Was  there  a  chance  that  any  or  all 
of  the  poems  had  been  accepted?  If  it  were  so — 

His  heart  jumped  a  little;  the  pudding  and 
pastry  became  suddenly  delicious;  the  room  was  a 
shell,  softly  golden,  and  visited  by  the  fluting  ut- 
terance of  the  birds  and  the  drumming  traffic  of 


DINNER  103 

the  wind.  Tiny  scenes  swung  into  his  mind,  were 
reviewed,  and  faded,  and  were  succeeded  by 
others  still  more  brilliant.  The  morning-room  to- 
night and  the  seven  o'clock  post — that  was  the 
first.  He  saw  the  long  envelope,  the  slip  inside 
and  its  outstanding  sentences:  "  The  poem  en- 
titled '  The  Train '  .  .  .  two  guineas  .  .  .  pub- 
lished in  due  course." 

This  vanished,  and  another  moved  into  vision: 
the  check,  Celia's  delight,  and  deference ;  the  pur- 
chase of  those  two  large  volumes  of  the  Morte 
D' Arthur  which  stood  in  the  dun  shadow  of  the 
bookshop  at  Wykeham  Rise ;  they  were  five  shill- 
ings; Celia  should  have  the  rest  for  a  hat.  Sup- 
posing he  had  a  poem  taken  every  week;  that 
would  be  two  guineas  extra  and  as  his  name  became 
known  he  would  be  paid  more.  ...  Of  course 
he  would  bring  them  all  out  in  book  form. 

The  vague  outlines  of  a  publisher's  office,  his 
own  voice  discussing  terms  of  publication:  his 
imagination  could  not  soar  beyond  the  splendor  of 
this  last  scene.  Its  flame  filled  him;  a  dilating 
heart  drove  him  into  speech. 


104  TEN  HOURS 

Casually  he  turned  to  Celia.  "  Talking  of 
poetry — my  flights  haven't  come  back  then?  It's 
three  weeks  now." 

The  middle  sentence  was  an  assertion,  not  a 
question.  Father  gave  him  a  swift  dismayed  look 
and  then  averted  his  eyes.  Celia  looked  at  him, 
too.  For  an  instant  there  was  silence,  and  in  it 
there  became  tartly  audible,  train  whistles,  voices 
of  hawkers,  and  the  hissing  of  trees,  the  pushing 
vehemence  of  the  wind. 

He  saw  Celia  sheeted  in  light,  little  glints  in 
her  hair,  her  eyes  filmily  staring  at  him,  her  cheeks 
flat  on  either  side  of  a  pinched  nose,  a  glazed  red 
blotch  on  her  face. 

He  came  into  sharp  impact  with  the  knowledge 
that  she  did  not  look  well.  His  mouth  opened. 
Concerned  inquiry  and  the  hazard  that  the  tooth 
was  aching  were  just  about  to  be  voiced  when, 
tortured  by  pain,  concentrated  on  that  torture 
to  the  utter  annihilation  of  all  thought  for 
other  people's  feelings,  savagely  desirous  indeed 
to  deal  a  blow  and  involve  everybody  in  a  trouble 
which  she  would  view  callously,  Celia  spoke. 

"  They  came  back  this  morning;  all  of  them.    I 


DINNER  105 

wasn't  going  to  let  you  see  them  before  dinner.  I 
thought  we'd  have  that  in  peace  at  any  rate." 

Collision  with  this  stunning  fact  drove  from 
Robert's  mind  all  thought  of  Celia's  pallor.  His 
darkness  was  accentuated  by  the  brightness  of 
those  dreams,  unjustifiably  elaborated  into  prob- 
abilities. Frantically  his  brain  strove  to  persuade 
him  that  neither  he  nor  Celia  had  spoken;  that  the 
MSS.  were  still  unreturned,  the  dreams, still  fore- 
tastes of  an  actual  future ;  but  its  deception  ceased 
almost  at  once ;  it  settled  into  blankness. 

For  a  moment  he  sat  silent  while  he  assimilated 
all  the  bitterness  of  disappointment.  Then  he 
turned  blackly  to  his  wife. 

"  I  like  to  be  told  at  once.  It's  all  rot  about  its 
spoiling  a  meal." 

"  Oh."  Celia's  exclamation  dismissed  this  pro- 
test as  something  not  worthy  of  attention,  dis- 
missed the  whole  affair,  indeed,  as  an  exasperating 
ineptitude.  "  We  don't  want  to  be  worried  during 
meals.  What's  the  good?  You  might  have 
known  they  would  come  back.  They  always  do." 

The  poison  of  this  last  statement  sank  into  Rob- 
ert's heart  and  turbidly  filled  it.  A  crowd  of  ac- 


io6  TEN  HOURS 

cusations,  injuries,  and  judgments  flocked  into  his 
mind.  "  They  always  do."  The  curt  sentence, 
more  deadly  still  for  its  truth,  summed  up  Celia's 
view  of  his  literary  output,  her  lack  of  faith,  her 
impatience.  She  never  asked  to  read  his  poems; 
she  talked  when  he  was  writing  them,  refusing 
by  her  vivacity  to  classify  them  among  serious 
labors;  she  protested  when  he  bought  books;  she 
was  more  than  unsympathetic:  she  was  actively 
hostile. 

He  turned  his  face  to  her,  his  mouth  stubborn, 
his  eyes  like  points  in  their  anger,  his  aspect  one 
of  subdued  but -steadily  smoldering  temper. 

"  I  know  that.  You  needn't  point  it  out.  But 
in  future  give  them  to  me  at  once." 

"  Certainly."  She  forced  her  mouth  into  a 
shapeless  smile.  "More  pudding,  Gwennie  ?'T 

Robert's  staring  eyes  moved  towards  the  girl. 
Was  this  a  cruel  adroit  reminder  that  Gwennie 
witnessed  his  discomfiture  and  his  sulks?  In  any 
case,  whether  intentional  or  not,  it  did  so  remind 
him.  He  wished  he  had  shown  more  dignity,  and 
concealed  his  chagrin.  "  They  always  do." 
Gwennie  knew  that.  She  could  tell  it  to  the  girls 


DINNER  107 

at  hei  office.  Deducting  from  Celia's  offhand 
manner  that  he  as  a  poet  was  no  good,  that  this 
period  of  failure  was  not  the  mere  temporary  one 
of  apprenticeship  but  a  merited  condition  which 
would  last  as  long  as  he  persisted  in  sending  his 
poems  to  papers,  she  too  would  grow  contemptu- 
ous, she  would  think  him  conceited,  unamenable  to 
the  repeated  assurances  that  he  was  simply  wasting 
his  time ;  blind,  uncritical,  fatuous.  .  .  . 

His  cheeks  were  hot.  The  intolerable  distinct- 
ness of  the  bodies  of  his  companions;  the  intoler- 
able silence  charged  with  unspoken,  but  raging 
thoughts,  with  feelings  carefully  hidden  but  no 
less  powerful;  the  dulling  fragments  of  his 
dreams  strewn  about  him;  the  knowledge  that  if 
Celia  had  shown  him  the  manuscript  at  once  he 
would  have  been  spared  the  keener  pain  won 
through  the  prolonging  of  ignorance  and  its  oc- 
cupation of  castle-building;  the  sickening  suspicion 
that  the  poems  really  were  worthless;  that  he 
never  would  do  anything;  all  weighed  upon  him 
like  real  substances,  bruising  and  crushing  him. 

"Where  are  they?"  he  said. 

"  Upstairs,  under  a  book  on  the  side-table." 


io8  TEN  HOURS 

"  Hiding  them  like  that,— childish." 
His  muttter  drew  a  hard  glance  from  Celia. 
The  tooth  was  settling  down  into  a  dull  throbbing 
but  though  it  was  the  factor  which  had  spurred 
on  all  her  rebellions  and  angers,  she  now  scarcely 
heeded  it.  Like  Robert  she  was  engaged  with 
judgments,  injuries,  and  complaints.  Why  couldn't 
he  admit  that  he  was  a  failure  in  this  special 
line  and  abandon  it?  It  was  the  cause  of  all  their 
dissensions.  He  recognized  her  indifference  and 
was  made  sore  by  it.  He  would  be  a  far  more 
agreeable  companion  if  he  were  not  always  stuck 
over  a  book  or  the  typewriter.  She  hadn't  meant 
to  be  so  tart,  but  it  was  all  so  silly.  She  had  no 
patience  with  people  wilfully  deceiving  them- 
selves ;  it  was  much  better  to  know  the  truth  and 
admit  it  to  be  the  truth,  and  have  everything 
cleared  up  and  done  with. 

She  looked  with  softening  eyes  at  father.  He 
at  any  rate,  good  man,  didn't  submit  his  effusions 
to  an  editor!  She  did  not  mind  Robert  scribbling, 
but  it  was  the  conceit  of  imagining  the  verses 
worthy  of  publication  that  was  so  irritating. 
Father,  at  least,  recognized  his  unfitness  for  the 


DINNER  109 

press  and  contented  himself  with  the  applause  of 
his  family.  Why  couldn't  Robert?  .  .  . 

Her  glance  traveled  to  Gwennie.  With  envy 
she  saw  the  latter's  placid  survey  of  the  road  and 
the  passers-by,  the  indolent  attitude  of  shoulders 
and  arms,  the  fresh  smoothness  of  cheek  and 
brow.  Worries,  responsibilities,  jars,  pains;  none 
of  these  attacked  Gwennie.  Like  a  cat  she  blinked 
in  the  light,  composed  herself  luxuriously,  and 
with  detached  calm,  watched  the  afflictions  of 
others.  An  inaudible  sigh  parted  Celia's  lips.  To 
be  sixteen,  with  at  once  all  the  advantages  of  free- 
dom, and  all  the  protection  of  the  nest;  without 
foresight,  without  memory;  untroubled  by  regrets, 
unchastened  by  experience;  to  be  thus  was  to 
be  happy. 

In  dignified  straightness  Celia  sat  in  the  strained 
silence  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  clouds  climbing 
over  the  crisp  roofs,  at  the  smokes  streaming  out 
with  steel-colored  glitters  in  their  gray  folds.  She 
was  conscious  of  every  line  of  Robert's  figure,  of 
his  long  heavy  face  and  his  brooding  eyes.  A 
hand,  cold,  and  nervous,  was  probing  her  heart, 
was  squeezing  it.  ... 


CHAPTER  VI 
AFTER  DINNER 

AFTER  dinner  she  and  Gwennie  went  into  the  scul- 
lery to  wash  up.  Father  and  Robert  withdrew 
upstairs. 

Father  sat  by  the  fire  and  filled  a  pipe.  Robert 
lifted  the  books  on  the  side-table  and  removed 
the  envelope. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  standing  there 
with  his  back  to  father,  slowly  drew  out  the  poems 
and  stared  distastefully  at  the  folded  sheets 
through  which  typewriting  was  faintly  visible.  As 
he  shifted  them  the  enclosed  "  editor's  regrets  " 
met  his  eyes.  Angry  repugnance  shook  him.  He 
laid  the  papers  on  the  hood  of  the  typewriter  and 
then  stood  staring  moodily  at  the  railway. 

He  heard  father's  chair  creaking,  he  smelt  unlit 
tobacco,  heard  the  contact  of  plate  with  plate 
downstairs,  and  close  at  hand,  a  puffing;  now  the 
pronounced  smell  of  tobacco  smoke  was  in  the 


AFTER  DINNER  in 

room.  He  pondered  over  every  noise,  he  knew 
the  exact  movement  which  inspired  it,  but  all  the 
time  his  mind  wove  swift  intricate  phrases,  and 
placed  clear  scenes  before  him,  and  was  full  of 
bewildering  energy. 

Presently  the  room  and  its  sounds  lost  signifi- 
cance. He  concentrated  himself  entirely  on  those 
subterranean  workings  of  his  mind.  What  was 
wrong  with  the  poems?  He  was  pinned  to  that 
question ;  till  he  had  answered  it  neither  his  brain 
nor  his  heart  could  have  rest. 

His  eyes  followed  the  lines  of  roof  traveling 
down  the  sky,  the  railway  banks  spaced  with  long 
grass  and  muddy  growth,  the  gorse  beyond,  and 
the  poplars,  gray  and  impalpable  as  vapors, 
shaken  by  the  wind.  Across  them  all,  pushing 
them  back  into  shadowy  unimportance,  were  the 
bold  lines  of  his  verses;  what  was  wrong  with 
these  ? 

Tobacco  smoke  stole  to  him,  strong-smelling, 
catching  the  light  as  it  mounted  in  smooth  eddying 
sweeps  above  his  head.  The  scent  was  the  one 
external  thing  of  which  he  was  conscious. 

Father  smoked  peacefully,  having  despite  the 


ii2  TEN  HOURS 

noises  in  the  house  and  in  the  streets,  a  sense  of 
profound  quietude.  His  eyelids  drooped.  Pon- 
dering over  his  poem  he  was  bothered  by  confused 
irrelevant  images  of  golden  pools  and  runnels  of 
water  stealing  with  the  sound  of  saturation  amid 
grasses.  Water  suggested  by  the  swishing  wind, 
the  dewy  bird-songs,  obsessed  him.  He  could 
almost  see  the  stealthy  shimmer  of  its  descent;  he 
heard  it  sinking  in  the  woods;  smelt  stagnant 
pools,  and  steeped  roots,  endless  marshes.  He 
nodded. 

II 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes,  Robert  had  found 
the  verses  dull,  flat,  commonplace.  Of  course 
they  would  not  be  taken.  .  .  . 

His  agreement  with  the  editor's  verdict  relieved 
him,  since  it  proved  that  he  was  not,  as  he  had 
feared,  without  critical  perceptions.  The  poems 
were  not  the  best  he  could  do.  Had  they  been, 
then  indeed  their  return  would  have  plunged  him 
into  unbearable  despondency,  but  once  convinced 
of  their  faults,  there  came  in  natural  sequence  the 
hope  that  he  could  remedy  these  faults,  turn  out 
better  work,  and  at  last  win  success. 

His  heart  lightened.     Slow,  tenacious  and  per- 


AFTER  DINNER  113 

vasive,  the  determination  to  win  this  success 
seized  on  him;  he  held  himself  still  more  uprightly, 
and  stared  pugnaciously  at  a  passing  train.  He 
would  do  it.  No  labor  should  be  shirked.  He 
would  read  and  think  and  observe  and  practise; 
then  some  day  he  would  do  it. 

Calmly  he  turned  to  the  clock;  it  was  time 
to  change.  He  moved  from  the  window 
and  regarded  father,  his  glance  almost  benevo- 
lent. 

Father's  head  had  fallen  to  one  side,  the  pipe 
hung  on  his  sagging  underlip,  his  brows  were  knit 
uneasily,  and  the  cap  was  awry.  He  did  not  look 
particularly  pleasing,  but  Robert's  expression  re- 
mained mild.  When  a  sound  between  a  wheeze 
and  a  rattle  broke  forth  in  father's  nose,  alarm 
stamped  his  face.  Regained  ease  of  breathing, 
however,  reassured  him.  Very  quietly  he  left  the 
room  and  went  upstairs  to  change. 

Ill 

Presently  he  came  down  again  to  the  hall.  The 
bicycle  stood  in  the  second  passage  and  he  felt 
the  tires  as  he  passed  it  on  his  way  to  the  kitchen. 
.  .  .  They  were  hard  as  bricks.  .  ... 


ii4  TEN  HOURS 

He  entered  the  kitchen. 

Gwennie  was  sitting  on  a  chair,  sitting  squarely, 
comfortably.  Celia  was  in  the  scullery.  A  corner 
of  the  table  was  spread  with  a  cloth,  a  thermos 
flask,  bread,  a  plate  of  buns  and  a  cake-stand  filled 
with  Celia's  biscuits.  On  the  fire  the  kettle  was 
boiling. 

Gwennie  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  He  smiled 
in  return  and  stood  by  the  fire,  his  eyes  on  Celia. 
Again  he  was  struck  by  the  droop  of  her  shoulders, 
the  inward  dip  of  her  cheeks,  the  wanness  of  her 
eyes.  Uneasily  he  asked  Gwennie: 

"Is  she  all  right?" 

Gwennie  showed  how  superficial  was  her  de- 
tachment from  the  scene  and  how  thoroughly  she 
lived  in  it  by  instantly  understanding  him. 

"  Think  so,  she's  had  toothache,  y'know." 

"  Mm.    Has  she  got  it  now?  " 

"  Don't  know,  she  hasn't  said.  I  expect 
she  has." 

Their  voices  were  low  but  they  reached  Celia's 
ears.  The  confidential  murmur  brought  her  eyes 
to  the  speakers.  Secretive,  companionable; — no 
doubt  Robert  got  on  well  with  Gwennie.  As  she 


AFTER  DINNER  115 

met  his  eyes  she  missed  their  not  very  apparent 
concern  and  read  into  his  attitude  and  his  gaze 
only  a  reminder  that  he  was  waiting. 

"  Shan't  be  a  minute,"  she  said  pertly. 

Robert  said,  "  No  hurry." 

Celia's  glance  wandered  to  Gwennie.  She  was 
sitting  down,  of  course.  "  Have  you  got  every- 
thing for  uncle's  tea?  "  she  demanded. 

"Yes,"  said  Gwennie,  "think  so."  She 
scanned  the  table.  "  Oh,  I  forgot  the  teapot." 

"  And  the  sugar  and  milk,"  Robert  supple- 
mented. "  Poor  uncle  !  Scurry  now;  see  how  fast 
you  can  move." 

Gwennie  laughed  as  she  went  to  the  dresser. 

"  His  highness  has  got  over  the  jar,"  thought 
Celia.  "  He  likes  to  chaff  her.  It's  a  good  thing 
something  makes  him  forget  his  troubles." 

She  entered  the  kitchen  and  took  up  the  loaf. 
"  Where's  the  butter,  Gwennie  ?  " 

"  Haven't  I  put  it  on?  Sorry."  She  moved  to 
the  pantry. 

Celia  looked  impassively  at  the  loaf.  A  thin 
call  came  from  the  pantry,  "  Which  shall  I  bring? 
There's  two  here." 


n6  TEN  HOURS 

One  was  margarine,  the  other  the  weekly  ration 
of  butter.  For  a  second  Celia  hesitated.  She 
shot  a  furtive  glance  at  her  husband. 

His  eyes  were  downcast.  It  was  constraint  that 
kept  him  silent  but  she  imagined  that  he  was  still 
sulking  and  a  sudden  indignation  smothered  all 
scruples.  Her  mouth  and  her  eyes  hardened.  He 
could  be  pleasant  to  Gwennie.  Standing  there  so 
impatiently;  bidding  her  to  attend  to  his  comfort! 
At  the  sight  of  his  heavy  face  and  body,  all  the 
morning's  clouds  seemed  to  culminate  in  an  over- 
whelming gloom.  She  was  swept  up  to  brief 
hysterical  fury.  She  hated  the  shackles  of  mar- 
riage; she  hated  Gwennie  with  her  laziness,  her 
plumpness,  her  ready  response  to  Robert's  friendli- 
ness; most  of  all  she  hated  the  kitchen  with  its  smell 
of  dried  food  and  gas  and  steam.  Blindingly  she 
saw  what  she  wanted.  Through  that  acute  sus- 
ceptibility to  smell,  those  desires  which  had  hither- 
to only  influenced  her  dreams,  found  sudden  com- 
munication with  her  conscious  self.  She  wanted  to 
get  out  into  the  air,  into  the  light.  Away  from 
duties,  away  from  this  discordant  bustling  suburb, 
she  wanted  to  stand,  with  downs  swelling  around 


AFTER  DINNER  117 

her,  skies  rushing  down  to  clear  distances,  and  the 
bitterness  of  newly  turned  furrows,  the  breath  of 
sprouting  leaves  and  rain  pools,  and  washed 
roadways,  sweeping  hugely  by.  No  smoke,  no 
sound  of  toil.  Space,  fragrance,  great  spaces  of 
light  dipping  over  woodlands.  .  .  . 

"  Bring  the  roll,"  she  said  clearly. 

Gwennie  came  in  and  laid  the  margarine  on 
the  table.  She  looked  intelligently  at  Celia. 

Those  thrilling  desires  died,  fury  died.  Miser- 
able and  ashamed,  Celia  cut  the  bread.  Her 
meanness  was  known  to  Gwennie,  her  petty 
revenge. 

"  Put  some  hot  water  in  the  thermos,"  she  said, 
and  proudly  beat  down  Gwennie's  confidential 
smile. 

"  I'll  do  that,"  said  Robert 

"  That's  right,  spare  Gwennie." 

Like  wasps,  venomous  thoughts  seemed  to  flock 
through  her  head  to-day.  She  was  utterly 
odious.  .  .  .  Every  time  the  knife  went  into  the 
margarine  she  felt  that  Robert's  glance  was  on 
her.  .  .  .  Any  one  could  see  it  was  marg. 

Her  cheeks  grew  hot,  she  could  not  lift  her  eyes. 

\ 


n8  TEN  HOURS 

IV 

The  sun  was  moving  into  the  west.  Blackly  the 
trees  spread  out  across  the  light  burning  redly 
amid  dispersing  clouds.  The  wall  facing  the  win- 
dow was  yellow,  splashes  and  bars  of  yellow  were 
in  other  parts  of  the  room,  and  sharp  little  flashes 
came  from  copper  things  and  pewter.  The  garden 
held  light  as  a  cup  holds  water;  its  straggling 
growth  folded  into  the  soft  glow  and  swayed  more 
gracefully.  Along  the  fence  the  rambler  roses, 
already  leafy,  were  a  haze  of  greeny-gold. 

Robert  did  not  notice  that  it  was  margarine; 
he  had  filled  the  flask,  not  to  spare  Gwennie,  but 
to  prevent  accidents.  He  was  thinking  what  a 
ripping  day  it  was,  how  pretty  Celia  looked,  how 
he  wished  she'd  soften,  how  sorry  he  was  about 
the  tooth. 

He  watched  the  movements  of  her  soft  wrists, 
the  bends  of  her  neck,  the  pouting  beauty  of  her 
mouth.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  scowl  at  her; 
if  only  it  wasn't  so  difficult  to  make  the  first 
advances ! 

He  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say,  but  sub- 


AFTER  DINNER  119 

jects  evaded  him.  Silently  he  watched  her 
spreading  jam,  packing  buns  and  biscuits. 

She  was  aware  of  his  scrutiny,  and  her  hands 
trembled,  she  moved  jerkily.  His  regard  was  an 
accusation,  she  thought,  of  the  margarine,  the 
thickness  of  the  bread,  even  of  the  shape  of  the 
biscqits.  So  unhabitual  had  been  all  the  emotions 
of  the  day  that  tearfulness  seemed  almost  an 
inevitable  end  to  them.  Nothing  she  did  could 
surprise  her  now. 

Feelings  whirled  through  her,  she  wanted  to  sit 
down,  to  be  bathed  in  fresh  air,  to  be  held  in 
some  one's  arms  and  soothed  and  kissed,  to  be 
considered,  and  waited  on,  and  sympathized  with. 
She  was  so  terribly  tired.  .  .  . 

She  lifted  her  appealing  eyes  to  Robert  just  as 
he  addressed  Gwennie. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  this  afternoon, 
Gwen?  " 

"  Don't  know,  go  out  I  expect,  and  muck 
about." 

His  good-natured  smile,  Gwennie's  breathy 
little  voice,  stung  Celia  into  firmness.  She  made 
the  tea. 


120  TEN  HOURS 

Robert  came  to  the  table,  tipping  up  Gwennie's 
chair  as  he  passed.  Gwennie  uttered  a  reedy  little 
shriek.  She  jumped  up  with  more  agility  than 
usual  and  struck  him  lightly.  He  chased  her 
round  the  table  and  into  the  scullery.  She  was 
laughing,  humping  her  shoulders,  and  glancing 
back  over  one,  her  eyes  sparkling.  Knowledge  of 
Auntie's  displeasure  made  her  impish,  and  also 
she  was  avid  for  admiration.  She  threw  open  the 
scullery  door  and  ran  into  the  garden  and  stood 
with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  strong  throat 
broadened,  her  teeth,  her  dimples,  her  impertinent 
nose,  her  narrow  eyes,  challenging  him.  She 
looked  handsome  and  womanly.  Her  glance  sped 
past  Robert  to  Celia;  and  its  triumph,  its  defiance, 
its  equalizing  directness,  sank  into  Celia's  heart. 
For  the  moment  she  could  not  dissemble.  She 
watched  Robert. 

"  Now  then,  young  lady,"  he  was  exclaiming. 
"  I'll  teach  you  how  to  treat  uncle  with  a  proper 
reverence." 

He  put  out  his  hands  towards  her  shoulders 
meaning  to  shake  her,  but  her  body's  fullness  and 


AFTER  DINNER  121 

height,  the  slyness  of  her  sidelong  glance,  were 
disconcerting,  they  checked  and  confused  him.  He 
had  chased  a  child  and  found  a  coquettish  warm 
palpitating  girl.  He  had  never  before  noticed 
how  tall  Gwennie  was,  how  well-developed  of 
body,  how  competently  roguish  of  eye. 

He  stared.  Then  unstirred  by  her  prettiness, 
but  irritated  by  the  suspicion  that  she  was  fooling 
him,  he  turned  and  walked  indoors.  "  Got  my 
tea  ready?"  he  asked  Celia. 

"  Yes.  Don't  be  later  than  six,  the  best  of  the 
day's  over  long  before  then."  She  walked  past 
him  to  the  cupboard,  her  eyes  indifferently  averted. 

"  All  right,  I  won't.  Good-by,"  he  spoke  with 
some  helplessness. 

"  Good-by." 

He  stood  looking  soberly  at  the  roll  of  hair 
about  her  long  neck,  at  her  shoulders,  and  at  her 
flat  back.  He  heard  Gwennie  come  in  and  shut 
the  door,  but  he  did  not  turn.  Gwennie  was  less 
to  him  than  a  shade.  He  wanted  to  kiss  Celia. 
Irresolutely  he  stepped  towards  her.  Gwennie 
entered  the  kitchen,  her  eyes  on  him.  He  was 


122  TEN  HOURS 

suddenly  conscious  that  he  must  look  absurd,  hold- 
ing the  flask  and  the  packet  of  food,  and  gazing 
amorously  at  Celia's  back. 

He  went  sharply  into  the  passage.  Confound 
everything!  It  was  cheek  of  Gwennie  to  watch 
him, — a  kid  like  that;  more  cheek  still  if  she 
wasn't  such  a  kid  after  all.  Why  was  Celia  pro- 
longing her  coldness  so? 

In  the  passage  it  was  shadowy,  and  cold, 
and  dispiriting. 

V 

A  little  later  he  rode  over  the  bridge,  past 
the  common  and  the  shops,  to  Charwood  Lane, 
dipping  down  between  fences  to  cricket  fields 
and  allotments. 

The  road  went  by  him,  lined  with  wheel  marks, 
sparkling  with  puddles,  stained  here  and  there 
with  motor  oil ;  trees  were  tossing  wisps  of  black, 
lamp-posts  came  and  stared  and  were  gone,  the 
shops  ceased  and  now  Charwood  Lane  leapt  under 
the  bicycle.  In  the  face  of  the  wind  rolling  and 
murmuring  over  him,  he  strove  forward,  great 


AFTER  DINNER  123 

heights  of  sky  shooting  above  him  and  meeting  in 
a  plain  marched  over  by  shining  clouds. 

His  blood  began  to  tingle.  Wind  was  in  his 
hair,  his  eyes,  his  nostrils;  streaming  like  cool 
water  through  his  sleeves,  standing  stiffly  before 
him,  and  then  suddenly  yielding  and  breaking  over 
and  beyond  him  with  a  great  resonant  roar. 

He  thought  of  Browning's  line  "  We  rode,  it 
seemed  my  spirit  flew."  Like  a  bird  his  mind 
sped  from  point  to  point  of  thought,  reconstruct- 
ing the  day's  scenes,  seeing  them  not  fragmen- 
tarily  as  when  he  had  lived  in  them,  but  in  their 
entirety,  so  that  Gwennie's  part,  father's,  Celia's, 
— most  of  all,  Celia's, — were  as  plain  to  him  as 
his  own.  He  had  brilliant  insights  as  he  pushed 
against  the  wind. 

Those  manuscripts, — how  fed  up  Celia  must 
have  been  with  them !  And  with  his  depressions, 
and  his  elation.  Of  course,  she  hadn't  faith  in 
him.  How  could  she  have  when  he  had  never 
given  her  the  proof.  Yes,  and  in  the  meantime, 
more  snubs  for  her  to  endure !  more  neglect. 
Neglect,  eh?  Yes,  might  she  not  consider  herself 


124  TEN  HOURS 

neglected  while  he  was  poring  over  paper  and 

furious  if  any  one  spoke  to  him?  .  .  . 

The  cricket  fields  and  the  allotments  drew  near, 
passed.  Rows  of  mean  houses  closed  upon  him, 
the  wind  whistled  down  side  streets  and  pierced 
him;  he  saw  fluttering  rags  in  gardens,  attenuated 
bushes,  broken  fences,  channels  of  mud.  .  .  . 
People  made  a  dark  shifting  pattern  on  the 
sunlight.  .  .  . 

And  the  money  he  spent  too !  She  never  asked 
for  more  housekeeping.  What  an  egotistical, 
thoughtless  fool  he  was !  She  was  the  finest  little 
thing;  he  adored  her,  and  he  was  always  hurting 
her.  He  wouldn't  buy  any  more  books,  wouldn't 
let  literary  work  make  him  morose.  .  .  .  He 
wouldn't  stand  this  kind  of  frozen  politeness  with 
each  other  any  longer.  It  was  rotten  having  Celia 
on  her  dignity.  When  he  got  back  he'd  make  her 
see  that  he  was  sorry.  .  .  . 

He  reached  Wimbledon  Common.  Clusters  of 
birches  trembled  above  the  flats  of  green,  streaks 
of  water  gleamed,  Kingsmere,  filled  with  sky, 
rose  into  small  pyramids,  steel-colored  and  crim- 
son. Soft  browns  and  grays,  broad  etchings  of 


AFTER  DINNER  125 

black,  brimmed  up  to  horizons  cut  cleamy  round 
them.  He  saw  spaces  of  flooded  grass,  the  blade 
tips  pricking  above  the  silvery  sheet,  the  sound  of 
its  sinking  amid  the  roots  not  audible  but  suggested 
to  him.  Small  rustlings  and  pipings  came  to  him 
from  the  tangled  edges  of  ditches,  and  from  the 
brown  depths  of  the  woods,  they  came  as  a  slender 
underhum  on  the  booming  wind.  The  tops  of 
the  firs  tarnished  by  the  sun  which  moved  above 
them,  rocked  violently,  sudden  ripples  shook  the 
birch  boughs. 

Higher  and  higher  Iiis  spirits  rose.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  riding  through  a  sea,  strong  yet 
kindly,  sweet-breathed,  deep. 

Gwennie,  too;  he  had  no  idea  she  was  growing 
up  so;  it  wouldn't  do  to  take  too  much  notice  of 
her.  Rather  rough  on  Celia,  having  to  look  after 
her,  Celia  so  young  herself,  and  Gwennie  ob- 
viously beginning  to  feel  her  feet.  No  end  of  a 
responsibility.  She'd  be  getting  fast  if  they  didn't 
look  out.  The  way  she  challenged  him  when  he 
chased  her! 

Displeasure  furrowed  his  brow.  He  didn't 
like  a  girl  to  be  too  old  for  her  age.  If  Gwennie 


126  TEN  HOURS 

thought  he  admired  her,  she  was  making  a  thun- 
dering big  mistake. 

More  vividly  still  he  saw  Gwennie's  expression. 
She  did  think  so.  Vain  little  thing!  He'd  never 
given  her  any  cause  to  think  so,  but  she  did.  She'd 
be  flirting  with  him  next.  Alarm  and  annoyance 
seized  him.  He'd  have  to  be  careful;  he'd  have 
to  show  that  he  thought  only  one  person  pretty, — 
Celia. 

Putney  Vale  Cemetery  went  by.  Beverly  Brook 
slid  with  a  dun  shimmer  between  its  banks,  grass 
darkened  by  wind  into  the  semblance  of  smoke 
plunged  away  to  south  and  west,  the  gates  of 
Richmond  Park  sped  by. 

Celia,  there  was  only  Celia.  And  to  have  Celia 
wounded,  ignorant  apparently  of  the  singleness  of 
his  devotion. 

Swift  and  stabbing,  came  the  suspicion — left 
her  imagining  that  he  thought  Gwennie  pretty. 

The  whole  mosaic  of  dinner's  events  was  now 
complete  and  distinct  before  him.  Blinding  illu- 
mination was  on  all  things.  Celia  was  jealous. 
Jealous  of  that  silly,  flighty,  cropped  headed  little 
doll!  .  .  Celia.  , 


AFTER  DINNER  127 

Fixedly  he  stared  at  the  road  swimming  through 
the  cowslip-colored  light.  His  mouth  was  set  in 
a  smile;  the  color  in  his  cheeks  was  not  only  due 
to  exercise  .  .  .  All  around  him  stretched  a 
world,  depopulated,  sucking  moisture  into  its 
depths,  heaped  fragrantly  with  moldering  leaves, 
hazed  with  sun,  stormed  by  wind.  No  human 
being  existed  any  longer,  like  shadows  they  melted, 
only  trees  and  sod  remained,  grouped  about  Celia. 
He'd  break  anybody  who  came  between  him 
and  Celia.  .  .  . 

VI 

He  entered  Kingston.  Without  hesitation  he 
went  to  the  first  jeweler's,  leant  the  bicycle  against 
the  curb  and  then  inspected  the  window. 

Outwardly  imperturbable  he  was  nevertheless 
thrilled  with  a  slight  excitement.  In  his  contempt 
for  Gwennie  and  for  himself,  the  flame  of  his 
engagement  days,  never  extinguished  but  a  little 
dimmed,  was  burning  again  with  a  fine  ardor.  He 
and  Celia  were  getting  too  stodgy.  That  glamor, 
that  romance,  must  be  re-captured.  Somehow  or 
other  he  must  overcome  the  difficulties  of  self- 


128  TEN  HOURS 

expression    and   show    Celia    that  his   love   was 
greater,  not  less. 

Impulsively  he  entered  the  shop. 

Celia  would  look  splendid  in  earrings. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CELIA  AND  GWENNIE 

CELIA  and  Gwennie  finishing  tidying  up  the 
kitchen.  Gwennie  would  have  stood  motionless 
watching  Celia  working  had  not  orders  been  given 
her,  but  when  these  came  she  obeyed  them  amiably 
enough.  She  evaded  action  whenever  possible 
but  she  did  not  resent  being  forced  into  movement. 
She  considered  Celia  to  be  as  justified  in  giving 
her  duties  as  she  herself  was  in  shirking  them.  You 
had  to  look  after  your  own  comfort  in  this  world. 
By  making  Gwennie  work  Celia  was  looking  after 
hers.  Quite  right.  By  being  blind  to  all  hints, 
all  sarcasms,  everything  indeed  short  of  actual 
commands,  Gwennie  was  equally  self-considering. 
It  was  all  perfectly  fair. 

Celia  put  the  margarine  away.    As  she  did  so 

she  knew  that  Gwennie's  gaze  was  on  her,  not 

sleepy  now,  but  intelligent.     Gwennie   could  be 

sharp  enough  sometimes,  usually  when  one  wanted 

129 


130  TEN  HOURS 

her  to  be  obtuse.  Celia's  suspicions  as  to  the 
depths  of  this  preoccupation  were  growing.  She 
believed  Gwennie  was  very  much  "  all  there," 
noting  the  immediate  scenes  and  drawing  infer- 
ences, not  pondering  extraneous  subjects.  The 
conviction  did  not  deepen  her  affection  for  Gwen- 
nie. She  liked  straight  people ;  open  people. 

II 

"  That's  done,"  she  said,  putting  the  broom 
behind  the  scullery  door.  "  And  now  I'm  going 
to  tidy.  Are  you?  " 

"  Oh,  not  for  a  minute ;  think  I  shall  have  a 
read  in  front  of  the  fire." 

"All  right;  don't  wake  father  if  he's  asleep." 

Gwennie  uttered  something  which  sounded  like 
"  Ner,"  but  which  was  evidently  meant  for 
agreement. 

She  went  upstairs  in  front  of  Celia.  The  latter 
surveyed  her  broad  shoulders  and  hips,  her  creamy 
neck  with  the  hair  turning  in  charmingly  to  it. 
She  sighed  a  little,  envying  Gwennie's  strength 
and  plumpness.  She  wouldn't  be  scraggy  when 
she  was  thirty  1 


CELIA  AND  GWENNIE  131 

Gwennie  entered  the  morning-room,  closed  the 
door  quietly,  and  stood  for  a  minute  regarding 
father. 

He  still  slumbered;  the  pipe  had  slid  from  his 
mouth  and  lay  on  a  ridge  of  his  waistcoat;  his 
head,  fallen  to  his  shoulder,  had  a  dislocated  ap- 
pearance; he  breathed  noisily.  Gwennie  moved  to 
the  fire,  knelt  down  by  it,  and  put  coal  on.  She 
was  obediently  quiet  but  the  splutter  of  the  coal 
as  it  caught  fire,  aroused  father.  His  lids  rose, 
his  head  regained  its  normal  position,  he  looked 
at  her  dully.  Gwennie  sat  back  on  her  heels  and 
smiled  at  him. 

"  Hur,"  said  father,  and  picked  up  the  pipe; 
then  surreptitiously  passed  the  back  of  his  hand 
over  his  moist  mouth.  "  I've  had  forty  winks." 

Gwennie's  smile  broadened  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

"Robert  gone?" 

"  Yes." 

"Celia?" 

"  She's  gone  up  to  dress." 

"  Ah."  Father  dusted  some  ash  off  his  waist- 
coat and  gazed  vaguely  at  the  pipe. 


1 32  TEN  HOURS 

"Want  a  spill?"  Gwennie  got  up  and  took 
one  from  an  ornament  on  the  mantel-piece.  She 
lit  it  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear."    He  puffed. 

Gwennie  remained  standing,  her  legs  planted 
squarely,  her  eyes  turned  window-ward. 

A  moment  passed.  Father  smoked.  Gwennie 
stood,  her  body  slack,  only  her  stirring  breasts 
showing  her  to  be  alive.  Her  gaze  rested  without 
expression  on  a  chair.  She  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  a  rise  of  energy  into  her  limbs  to  propel  her 
to  it. 

Then  father  got  up.  "  Ah,  well,  I  think  I  shall 
do  a  little  gardening.  I  must  justify  my  existence. 
It  is  a  beautiful  afternoon;  beautiful." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  looking  old  and  tremu- 
lous and  uncertain. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  him,  Gwennie  at 
once  sat  down  in  his  armchair.  She  lay  back  in 
it,  her  hair  pushed  to  her  cheeks,  her  face  pink  and 
calm,  her  eyelids  heavy  on  her  pupils.  There  was 
nothing  ethereal  about  her.  Warmth  flushed  her; 
her  breath  coming  regularly  through  her  little 
round  nostrils,  slightly  damped  her  nose  and  her 


CELIA  AND  GWENNIE  133 

upper  lip.  She  looked  like  a  sunned  cat,  hot  and 
soft  to  the  touch. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Celia 
joined  her. 

Gwennie,  who  had  not  moved,  was  redder  and 
warmer  than  ever,  more  thoroughly  incarnate, 
more  apparently  without  soul. 

Celia,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  to  be  made  "  of 
spirit,  fire  and  dew."  She  had  put  on  a  pale  blue 
silk  blouse,  and  brushed  her  hair,  and  washed  her 
face.  She  was  pale  and  serious.  Her  neck,  bared 
now,  gave  her  by  its  length  and  slenderness,  a  still 
more  flower-like  appearance.  The  little  upward 
tilt  in  the  middle  of  her  mouth,  making  fullness, 
the  droop  of  its  thin  corners,  were  alluring. 

She  glanced  at  Gwennie,  and  then  brought  to 
the  fire  a  small  table  and  a  work-box.  "  Where's 
father?"  she  asked. 

"  Gone  into  the  garden."  Gwennie  looked  at 
her  with  heavy  filmy  eyes. 

"  Sensible  boy.  It's  simply  beautiful  out,  but 
I  want  to  finish  this." 

She  sat  down  and  took  from  the  work-box  a 
roll  of  crochet  lace. 


134  TEN  HOURS 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  continued, 
scrutinizing  her  work. 

"  Dunno." 

"  Three  treble,  three  chain,  three  treble,  that's 
it"  She  twirled  the  cotton  and  began  to  crochet. 
"  You  ought  to  go  out  such  a  lovely  afternoon." 

11  'Spect  I  shall  later  on."  Gwennie's  lids 
drooped;  only  a  line  of  lack-luster  eye  was  visible. 
The  warmth  of  her  huddled  position  was  broaden- 
ing her  features  a  little. 

Celia,  sitting  erect,  crocheted  rapidly.  She  was 
aware  of  a  slight  excitement  which  ran  up  and 
down  her  like  a  live  thing,  communicating  itself  to 
all  her  nerves.  She  had  felt  it  first  when  she  went 
into  her  room  to  dress,  and  noticed  that  it  was 
ten  to  three.  Her  heart  had  jumped  as  if  the  hour 
were  somehow  portentous,  and,  as  if  she  dreaded 
the  discovery  of  what  made  it  so,  she  had  scuttled 
to  the  dressing-table  and  pulled  out  hairpins  and 
shaken  her  hair  down  with  great  briskness. 
Nevertheless  the  excitement  remained,  and  it  gov- 
erned her  actions,  making  her  put  on  this  blue 
blouse,  which  was  new;  making  her  decide  not  to 
go  out  but  to  finish  her  crochet;  making  her  deter- 


CELIA  AND  GWENNIE  135 

mined  to  throw  aside  all  moods  and  be  sensible 
and  cheerful. 

Now  as  she  glanced  from  the  crochet  to  Gwen- 
nie,  she  was  reminded  of  Alice.  Gwennie  was 
frightfully  like  Ally  sometimes.  Ally,  of  course, 
was  much  more  braced-up.  A  much  better  girl 
too,  Celia's  mind  said  tartly,  wriggling  out  of  the 
duty  of  being  nice  about  Gwennie.  Yes,  but  she 
was  older;  you  can't  remember  what  she  was  like 
when  she  was  Gwen's  age;  Gwen'll  improve;  she 
wants  looking  after,  that's  all.  You  mustn't  be 
too  hard. 

"  Four  chain,  one  double-crochet  in  there, — go 
in, — four  chain.  It's  a  pretty  pattern,  isn't  it?" 

"  Mmm." 

"How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  jumper?" 

"Allri'." 

"  Have  you  made  any  more  mistakes?  " 

"  One;  doesn't  show  much  though." 

"  Good  thing.  .  .  .  You  ought  really  to  have 
undone  it,  you  know,  when  you  went  wrong;  it's 
worth  it.  You  want  it  to  look  decent,  and  you'll 
have  little  lumps  all  over  it  from  what  I  can 


136  TEN  HOURS 

"  Too  much  fag." 

"  Oh,  Gwennie,  Gwennie,  you  are  a  lazy 
bones !  "  Gwennie  laughed  briefly. 

Celia  looked  across  at  her  kindly  enough,  and 
found  those  misted  lines  of  eye  fixed  on  the  blue 
blouse.  For  a  fraction  of  a  second  Gwennie's  lids 
lifted  and  a  glance,  sharp,  inscrutable,  darted  at 
Celia's  face;  then  her  lashes  swept  her  cheeks 
again.  She  yawned. 

Celia  was  conscious  of  a  jolt.  Why  did  Gwen- 
nie look  like  that?  Straight  at  the  blouse,  and 
then  at  the  wearer?  Her  wide  perturbed  eyes 
stared  at  the  hot  face,  the  closed  eyes,  the  col- 
lapsed body  in  the  armchair.  She  must  have 
dreamt  that  look.  But  she  had  not. 

Uncomfortably  she  returned  to  the  crochet. 
She  felt  as  she  would  have  felt  had  she  been 
standing  without  protection  of  any  kind  in  a  place 
raided  by  forked  lightning.  She  wanted  a  shield, 
a  covering.  Gwennie's  glance  had  stripped  her, 
it  had  thrust  right  down  into  her  heart.  She  knew, 
what  she  had  so  often  suspected,  that  Gwennie 
watched  her,  watched  every  one;  was  alive  to 
every  piece  of  self-revelation. 

She  was  shaken  momentarily  not  only  by  the 


CELIA  AND  GWENNIE  137 

knowledge,  but  by  the  way  it  illuminated  other 
disquieting  facts.  If  it  was  justified  it  placed 
Gwennie  in  a  very  unlovable  light;  it  showed  her 
to  be  secretive,  distrustful,  cold,  dissimulating. 
Dismay  filled  her  as  in  this  manner  she  estimated 
Gwennie  afresh,  yet  she  kept  tenaciously  to  that 
subject,  in  an  endeavor  to  avoid  the  other  fact: 
she  hated  to  have  Gwennie  observant  because  she 
did  not  wish  to  be  observed.  Why?  She  had 
nothing  to  conceal;  nothing  that  she  minded 
Gwennie  discovering. 

Her  hands  trembled;  waves  of  heat  surged 
over  her  and  subsided,  leaving  her  shivering. 
There  was  something  she  wished  to  hide,  some- 
thing which  she  had  hidden  even  from  herself, 
hidden  so  successfully  that  she  did  not  know  its 
nature,  its  lineaments  were  veiled  to  her.  Only 
the  conviction  that  something  existed  in  her  which 
was  unfamiliar  and  of  recent  growth  was  palpable. 
If  Gwennie  discovered  it.  ... 

Rubbish.  All  this  flurry  because  Gwennie  had 
looked  at  her  new  blouse!  But  that  was  it. 
Somehow  the  blouse  was  connected  with  that  hid- 
den possession.  It  was  the  outward  manifesta- 
tion of  it. 


138  TEN  HOURS 

And  Gwennie  knew  this.  .  .  . 

Ill 

A  few  minutes  passed.  At  the  end  of  them, 
Gwennie  very  slowly  rose  from  the  chair. 

"  S'pose  I  must  go  and  tidy,"  she  said,  and  be- 
stowed her  invariable  smile  on  Celia. 

"  I  should,  and  then  go  for  a  walk.  You're 
wasting  all  the  best  part  of  the  day." 

"  Feel  dreadfully  messy,"  Gwennie  continued, 
smoothing  her  disordered  hair. 

Celia's  scrutiny  was  steady.  Rather  clumsily 
she  tried  to  mask  her  expression,  but  her  distrust 
and  pain  lay  on  her  expressive  mouth  and  in  the 
bend  of  her  fair  brows.  She  showed  that  with 
quivering  apprehension  she  was  examining  Gwen- 
nie afresh  and  at  the  same  time  trying  to  make 
herself  unreadable.  She  betrayed  also  her  in- 
ability to  learn  anything  from  Gwennie's  rosy, 
good-tempered  little  face. 

With  a  slight  jerk  of  her  head,  she  directed  hef 
gaze  to  the  crochet. 

Gwennie  went  out. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
GWENNIE  ALONE 

THE  staircase  struck  cold  after  the  warmth  of 
the  fire  and  the  chair,  and  Gwennie's  movements 
quickened.  She  almost  ran  up  the  first  flight  and 
into  her  room. 

She  closed  the  door  and  very  quickly  turned  the 
key.  Then  she  looked  about  her,  her  eyes  more 
open,  more  frank,  more  childish. 

She  went  first  to  the  dressing-table  and  sitting 
down  before  it,  scrutinized  herself  with  a  pro- 
found and  unwavering  interest.  She  took  up  the 
comb  and  drew  it  through  her  hair,  opened  a 
drawer,  produced  a  length  of  narrow  velvet  ribbon 
and  tied  it  round  her  head  as  a  fillet;  then  she 
picked  up  the  hand-mirror  and  surveyed  the  effect 
from  all  angles. 

"  Doesn't  suit  me,"  she  said  aloud,  and  removed 
the  ribbon.  For  a  few  moments  she  remained 
139 


1 40  TEN  HOURS 

without  movement,  still  regarding  her  reflection. 
When  her  gaze  shifted  it  fell  on  the  photo  of  the 
youth  which  lay  near  the  hair-brush.  She  smiled, 
and  leaning  forward,  stared  at  the  photo  without 
touching  it.  There  was,  now,  nothing  enigmatical 
about  her  expression.  She  was  girlishly  simpering 
and  confused. 

The  salient  features  of  a  conversation,  this 
morning  with  her  friend  at  the  office  moved  into 
her  mind:  their  shoulders  and  heads  touching,  her 
own  rapid,  whispered  confidences,  Doris's  ejacula- 
tions and  looks  of  envy.  "  He  wrote  me  four 
whole  pages,  quite  close  pages,  and  he  asked  me 
to  go  out  with  him  to-night,  but  I  wouldn't 
promise;  said  I  didn't  know."  Thus  Gwennie. 
Her  smile  broadened  now,  and  her  eyes  glinted 
with  sudden  triumph.  She  raised  her  head  and 
again  looked  in  the  mirror.  Her  cheeks  were 
turning  and  she  pressed  her  palms  to  them.  She 
was  pretty,  awfully  pretty,  much  prettier  than 
Doris.  ...  It  was  nice  to  be  pretty,  it  must  be 
dreadful  to  be  plain.  "  Shouldn't  want  people  to 
see  me  if  I  was  ugly,  if  I  had  a  mouth  like  Ida 
Thome's.  It  was  an  accident,  poor  girl;  must  be 


GWENNIE  ALONE  141 

dreadful  to  have  your  face  spoiled."  .  .  .  Then 
there  was  Nora  Simpson,  her  nose  "  frightfully 
broad,  takes  up  half  her  face  and  she  makes  it 
worse  powdering  it;  don't  like  powder;  makes  you 
look  mauve." 

She  giggled. 

Rousing  herself  at  last  from  these  congratula- 
tory meditations,  she  put  the  pink  beads  round  her 
neck.  They  looked  ripping.  She  closed  the 
drawer,  walked  to  the  wash-stand  and  washed 
her  hands. 

II 

The  sun  was  low  now,  poised,  a  great  flaming 
bubble  above  the  low  roofs,  bronzing  them,  send- 
ing a  haze  of  gold  up  to  the  arch  of  the  sky.  The 
clouds  were  smaller,  and  longer,  and  darker  than 
those  of  the  morning.  At  the  dip  of  the  west  they 
formed  into  headlands  and  smooth  close  banks, 
orange-edged  but  with  gray  hearts.  The  garden, 
the  roads,  and  the  common  were  all  dark  bronze. 
Only  the  eastern-facing  house-fronts  and  the  dis- 
tances vanishing  into  the  cloudy  rose  of  the  west 
were  cold  and  gray. 

Gwennie,  indifferent  to  the  external  beauty,  but 


1 42  TEN  HOURS 

appreciating  the  look  and  the  feel  of  the  light  as 
a  cat  does,  walked  to  the  bed  which  was  pooled 
with  sunshine.  She  kicked  off  her  slippers,  turned 
down  the  counterpane  and  scrambled  on  to  the 
bed.  From  the  table  by  it  she  took  a  paper  bag 
and  a  book.  Then  she  lay  down,  covered  herself 
with  the  counterpane,  and  opening  the  bag, 
extracted  a  chocolate  and  ate  slowly  and 
voluptuously. 

The  windows  rattled  in  the  gusts  of  wind  which 
beat  against  it;  sibilant  hissings  went  by;  she  could 
hear  father's  footsteps  up  and  down  the  gravel 
path ;  she  could  see  a  slip  of  pearly  sky  and  clouds 
mounting  into  it  and  passing.  The  warmth  of 
the  bed  rose  round  her  and  the  pleasant  smell  and 
softness  of  clean  linen.  Through  the  counterpane 
she  could  feel  the  sunlight  warm  on  her  ankles  and 
legs;  the  chocolates  were  delicious;  all  her  senses 
were  gratified. 

For  a  little  while  she  reveled  tranquilly  in  her 
sensations.  Then,  not  with  swift,  strenuous  effort, 
but  placidly,  somnolently,  she  began  to  think. 

She  thought  first,  of  the  photo  on  the  dressing- 
table,  the  letter  which  had  accompanied  it,  and  the 


GWENNIE  ALONE  143 

confidences  to  Doris.  She  had  a  "  boy  " ;  one 
who  was  nineteen,  and  big,  and  adoring;  who 
treated  her  to  chocolates,  and  pictures;  and  who 
thought  her  frightfully  pretty.  These  were  the  es- 
sentials of  happiness,  and  she  possessed  them,  but 
more  than  that,  innumerable  delicate  little  pleas- 
ures rose  out  of  them;  other  girls'  envy,  jealousies, 
cutting  innuendoes,  coldnesses,  manoeuvers;  all 
these  things  added  piquancy  to  office  life. 

It  was  awfully  nice  to  be  admired,  and  to  have 
every  one  know  you  were  admired ! 

She  smiled,  snuggled  deeper  into  the  pillow, 
and  ate  another  chocolate.  Should  she  go  out 
with  Harry,  the  youth  of  the  photo,  to-night,  or 
should  she  make  him  cross  by  not  appearing? 
Her  dimples  grew  very  pronounced.  The  sense 
of  power  seduced  her.  Supposing  she  went.  .  .  . 

She  smoothed  the  pillow  with  her  cheek;  heat 
bathed  her,  the  yellow  sheen  in  the  air  caressed  her 
eyes.  She  was  drifting  on  a  wave  of  dreamy 
speculation  in  which  she  saw  herself  going  to  meet 
Harry;  going,  she  would  tell  auntie,  to  meet  one 
of  the  girls  at  the  office.  The  streets  were  about 
her,  gray  under  a  sky  faintly  mauve  and  in  the 


144  TEN  HOURS 

west,  coppery.  Shops  were  alight,  shadows  stole 
from  walls,  and  filled  the  ruts  in  the  roadway  and 
like  smoke  rose  and  hung,  and  rose  higher,  seeking 
the  sky.  She  would  meet  Harry.  Her  conscious 
smile  broadened,  her  face  grew  redder.  She 
would  meet  him,  and  she  would  tuck  her  arm  in 
his  as  they  crossed  the  road,  and  then  they  would 
go  to  the  pictures.  When  they  came  out  again  it 
would  be  quite  dark  and  he  would  see  her  as  far 
as  the  top  of  this  road.  Then  they  would  stand 
in  the  blackness  and  say  good-by.  He  would  be 
silly  and  stammering,  and  perhaps,  almost  cer- 
tainly, he  would  try  to  kiss  her  like  he  did  the 
other  night. 

She  gave  a  little  convulsive  jerk  to  her  body; 
laughter  shook  her.  It  was  all  such  fun.  She 
had  not  let  him  kiss  her.  She  had  scuttled 
across  the  road  through  an  instinctive,  rather 
than  a  deliberate,  stirring  of  coquetry,  leav- 
ing him  confused  and  tremulous.  She  did  not 
particularly  want  to  be  kissed,  but  neither  was 
she  fastidiously  opposed  to  such  a  proceeding.  All 
she  wanted  was  that  he  should  have  the  desire  for 
the  caress.  It  was  such  fun ! 


GWENNIE  ALONE  145 

She  sighed  happily.  It  was  awfully  nice  to  be 
a  girl,  and  pretty;  to  be  able  to  make  a  boy  look 
silly  and  buy  you  things,  and  do  what  he  was  told. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  lingered  on  this  fasci- 
nating subject;  then  she  turned  to  the  other 
alternative,  that  of  piquing  him  by  not  "  turn- 
ing up." 

Slow  but  diligent,  her  mind  searched  the  mazes 
of  each  course,  missing  nothing,  thirstily  absorbing 
all  the  pleasure  of  the  sex  game  which  she  was 
playing  crudely  and  with  restricted  understanding 
but  with  increased  zestfulness. 

Of  course  she  never  had  deliberately  deceived 
auntie  before.  Reservations  there  had  been  and 
distortions  which  almost  amounted  to  untruths, 
but  she  had  never  lied  outright.  The  other  night, 
for  example,  when  she  said  she  was  going  out  with 
Doris,  she  was  speaking  truthfully;  what  she 
withheld  was  that  Harry  and  his  friend  would 
join  them,  and  that  formation  into  couples  was 
likely,  and  possibly  even  a  divergence  of  routes. 
There  was  no  need  to  mention  that;  and  when 
auntie  asked,  obviously  by  way  of  making  con- 
versation, and  not  because  she  was  suspicious, 


i46  TEN  HOURS 

whether  Dons  came  all  the  way  home  with  her, 
Gwennie  had  answered,  "  No,  not  all  the  way," 
and  that  again  was  true.  If  it  established  in 
auntie's  mind — a  fact  which  was  non-existent,  that 
of  Gwennie  coming  home  alone,  when  all  the  time 
Harry  was  with  her — it  was  not  Gwennie's  place 
to  confute  chimeras  of  thought.  She  had  an- 
swered candidly  the  spoken  question;  no  more 
could  be  expected  of  her. 

But  to-night  was  different.  To  say  flatly,  "  I'm 
going  out  with  Doris,"  when  Doris  would  not 
appear  on  the  scene  at  all,  was  an  enormity  from 
which  she  shrank.  It-  was  not  only  uncom- 
promisingly wrong,  it  was  also  likely  to  involve 
her  in  a  tissue  of  further  lies  which  would  be  cer- 
tain to  reduce  her  to  a  state  of  extreme  embarrass- 
ment. Exposure  was  certain.  Auntie  was  so 
sharp,  and  then:  strict  guard  on  her  movements 
and  endless  restrictions ! 

On  the  other  hand,  if  she  said  honestly,  "  I'm 
going  with  a  boy  I  know,"  auntie  was  sure  to  bring 
up  all  her  old  fashioned  notions  and  forbid 
Gwennie  to  move  from  the  house.  "  She'd  say 
it  looked  bad;  people  wouldn't  like  me;  she 


GWENNIE  ALONE  147 

wouldn't  have  me  running  about  with  boys;  or 
something  awfully  silly  like  that." 

The  situation  bristled  with  difficulties.  Gwen- 
nie's  brain  grew  fogged  and  bewildered.  Such 
close  seeking  and  examination  of  consequences 
was  unusual  with  her  and  she  found  it  exhausting. 
She  ate  another  chocolate  and  sank,  mind  and 
body,  into  lethargy. 


Ill 

Gray  shades  grew  up  to  the  window  and  rolled 
into  the  room,  the  sunlight  was  at  once  shut  off 
and  the  air  smoked  over.  Straight  up  beyond  the 
roofs,  across  the  sun,  a  mass  of  cloud  had  leaped, 
and  under  it,  controlled  by  it,  rushes  of  air  veered 
and  whistled,  and  boughs  yapped.  Then  the  rain 
rattled  on  the  window;  and  hissed  down  past  it  on 
to  the  rotten  leaves  and  the  lawns. 

Gwennie  opened  her  eyes.  The  rain  battered 
the  glass;  the  scent  of  the  garden  steamed  up  more 
powerfully.  There  were  distant  murmurs  of  rain 
and  wind :  rain  biting  into  the  common,  wind  bow- 
ing its  trees  to  the  drenched  grasses;  there  were 


148  TEN  HOURS 

whisperings  close  at  hand  as  dead  leaves  were 
driven  down  the  paths;  continuous  rustlings  broke 
upon  the  house,  and  falling  back,  sank  moaning, 
and  rushed  and  chattered  amid  the  low  stems,  and 
drew  hissings  from  the  heaped  leaves.  The  room 
was  quite  dark. 

Gwennie  watched  the  raindrops  starting  up  on 
the  window,  breaking  and  falling.  "  Uncle'll  get 
wet "  she  reflected. 

The  name  suggested  a  fresh  subject-matter  for 
her  thoughts.  Uncle  considered  her  pretty. 
Closed  mouth  broadly  smiling,  damp  lids  heavy 
on  her  eyes,  she  recalled  his  expression  as  it 
had  been  when  she  had  faced  him  in  the  garden. 
She  felt  the  stream  of  wind  sluicing  her  legs,  and 
dabbing  her  bare  neck,  she  saw  Robert's  stare  and 
arrested  arms;  and  beyond  him,  the  kitchen  and 
auntie  standing  by  the  table,  watching  her 
jealously. 

Again  she  was  delighted.  It  was  all  "  such 
fun."  Auntie  was  frightfully  cross  with  uncle, 
and  all  because  he  thought  she,  Gwennie,  was 
pretty.  .  .  . 

The  swish  of  the  shower  was  no  longer  audible. 


GWENNIE  ALONE  149 

She  opened  one  eye.  A  line  of  sky  stained  into  a 
deeper  blue  looked  down  on  her.  She  stretched 
herself  and  sighed  luxuriously.  Her  lazy  thoughts 
dwelt  on  Robert. 

Little  doubts  of  his  admiration  troubled  her. 
If,  when  he  stopped  at  the  scullery  door  and 
stared,  it  was  because  he  suddenly  realized  her 
prettiness,  why  did  he  frown,  and  return  to  the 
kitchen,  and  when  she  followed  him,  ignore  her, 
and  look  at  auntie?  Vexation  furrowed  her  brow. 
He  had  ignored  her  and  gazed  at  auntie.  .  .  . 
And  he  had  been  anxious  about  auntie's  health. 
She  believed  he  was  really  fearfully  fond  of  auntie. 

The  conviction  at  once  intrigued  and  ruffled  her. 
It  was  nice  to  watch  romantic  revelations,  specu- 
late on  his  desires  to  kiss  auntie,  muse  over  the 
manifestations  of  his  love  and  use  them  as  a  touch- 
stone for  her  own  affairs,  but  on  the  other  hand  it 
was  galling  to  be  considered  inferior  in  prettiness 
to  some  one  else.  She  wanted  uncle  to  admire  her, 
she  rather  liked  making  auntie  wild. 

She  rolled  over  on  her  back.  "  Mustn't  be 
greedy,"  she  murmured. 

The  protest  was  sincere  enough.    Gwennie  was 


1 50  TEN  HOURS 

not  wantonly  cruel.  Celia's  displeasure  was  a 
stimulating  side-issue,  not  an  object.  She  desired 
Robert's  admiration  as  food  for  her  own  vanity, 
not  as  a  weapon  with  which  to  wound  auntie. 
Merely  annoying  auntie  was  nothing,  actually 
hurting  her,  however,  was  not  sporting,  "  Beastly 
mean,"  Gwennie  breathed,  as  she  pondered  the 
rules  of  the  game. 

Languidly  she  dismissed  all  thought.  Her  nos- 
trils moved  very  slightly,  her  chest  rose  and  fell, 
stirring  the  counterpane,  her  skin  looked  humid 
in  the  light  which  again  flowed  weakly  in  the  room. 
She  was  floating  on  sun-warmed  gentle  currents, 
there  were  splashings  and  lapping  all  around  her, 
and  piercing  sounds  as  well;  gratings  and  screw- 
ings  and  vibrations,  as  of  innumerable  small  tools 
all  working  together,  and  making  a  kind  of  musical 
shrillness.  "  Birds  like  the  rain,"  she  thought. 

IV 

She  was  perfectly  happy.  Had  Celia  seen  her 
now  and  read  the  previous  workings  of  her  mind 
and  its  present  apathy,  she  would  have  understood 
that  Gwennie  was  neither  very  subtle  nor  very 


GWENNIE  ALONE  151 

vapid.  She  was  merely  normal,  only  she  seemed 
to  be  alternately  more  or  less  than  this  because  of 
her  sphinx-like  inscrutability. 

The  qualities  which  were  most  mature  in  her 
were  selfishness,  laziness,  and  romance.  All  her 
actions  were  guided  by  these  things.  Her  mother 
had  spoiled  her;  the  six  months  following  Alice's 
death  had  been  ones  of  entire  independence. 
Father  was  a  companion,  not  a  director.  When 
life  with  Celia  began,  Gwennie  saw  immediately 
that  it  held  disciplines  and  she  determined  to 
thwart  these  disciplines.  At  all  times  it  had  been 
easier  to  smile  than  to  speak;  now  inclination  be- 
came diplomacy.  She  distrusted  Celia  as  she 
would  have  distrusted  any  one  invested  with 
authority  and  the  power  to  affect  her  comfort. 
Therefore  like  a  little  snail  she  curled  her  person- 
ality up  in  her  shell  and  refused  to  respond  to  any 
amount  of  prodding.  Her  silences,  her  unrespon- 
siveness,  were  temperamental.  She  had  displayed 
them  ever  since  she  was  a  child,  but  she  now  saw 
their  advantages  and  she  elaborated  them  for  the 
purpose  of  throwing  dust  in  the  eyes  of  spectators. 
She  knew  that,  conceiving  her  to  be  half-asleep, 


152  TEN  HOURS 

people  talked  unreservedly  in  her  presence;  and 
she  discovered  the  charm  of  reclining  in  an  arm- 
chair and  following  the  windings  of  unguarded 
and  allusive  conversations.  She  learnt  all  sorts 
of  things  that  way;  it  was  most  interesting. 

The  third  powerful  emotion  in  her  was  romance. 
She  was  saturated  with  sentiment,  with,  in  its 
crudest  form,  the  interest  of  sex.  To  her  a  boy 
was  a  prey.  With  sidelong  glances,  murmurs  of 
laughter,  natural  girlish  confusions,  and  premedi- 
tated neglects  and  refusals,  she  won  the  attention 
of  masculine  adolescence.  To  her,  admiration  was 
a  sun.  She  flushed  under  it,  basked  in  it,  and 
preened  herself,  as  in  a  warm  and  gracious  atmo- 
sphere. Though  she  was  hardly  conscious  of  the 
nature  of  the  power  she  was  exerting,  its  effects 
were  plain  to  her,  and  its  delights  also.  She  looked 
at  the  boys  she  passed  in  the  streets;  she  fluttered 
her  lashes  at  her  friend's  brothers;  she  spent  long 
languorous  hours  musing  on  her  conquests,  on 
coming  meetings,  on  the  features,  and  very  super- 
ficially, on  the  natures,  of  her  admirers.  Her 
ambitions  were  most  elementary;  recurrent  male 
glances,  the  tribute  of  embarrassed  manners, 


GWENNIE  ALONE  153 

"  treats  "  at  the  cinemas,  chocolates,  flowers,  the 
envy  of  her  girl  friends, — for  the  time  she  desired 
no  more  than  these,  and  when  her  fancy  strayed 
into  the  future,  its  demands  were  scarcely  more 
mature.  The  horizon  of  that  future  was  flushed 
with  love;  it  was  filled  with  love;  but  Gwennie's 
conception  of  love  was  the  slavery,  the  gifts, 
pleasures,  and  privileges  of  an  engagement,  not 
the  physical  and  spiritual  joys  of  union.  She  was 
not  innocent  but  neither  was  she  sophisticated. 
She  was  merely  intent  on  the  securing  of  all  things 
which  gratified  her  and  though  these  things  were 
in  themselves  harmless  and  trivial,  inordinate  de- 
sire for  them  and  a  lack  of  scruple  in  their  pursuit, 
were  not  having  the  best  effect  on  her  character. 
There  was,  too,  a  latent  sensuousness  in  her  which 
rendered  her  susceptible  to  the  appeal  of  those 
evening  walks,  to  the  influence  of  the  dim,  windy 
side  streets,  the  stars  burning  and  shaking  above 
the  bulk  of  the  town,  and  the  warm  contact  of  an 
arm,  of  a  hand,  knocking  hers,  and  a  face  bending 
to  her  own.  She  was  barely  aware  of  the  response 
of  her  body,  far  less  of  the  meaning  of  that  re- 
sponse, but  she  knew  that  the  walk  with  Harry 


154  TEN  HOURS 

held  a  thrilling  delight,  which  was  absent  when 
Doris  was  her  companion.  The  ring  of  their  foot- 
steps; the  immediate  silence  broken  only  by  the 
slipping  of  the  wind  through  the  dry  trees  and 
laurels;  at  the  core  of  the  town  that  swelling 
rhythm  of  sound  advancing  and  receding  like 
water  over  stones;  the  immediate  darkness  sweep- 
ing up  to  the  jets  of  the  stars;  at  the  street-ends, 
a  mist  of  yellow,  and  the  luminous  scarves  of  the 
smokes  blown  out  against  chimney-stacks — they 
all  contributed  to  her  enjoyment.  They  gave  to 
the  walk  a  romance,  a  secrecy,  which  would  not 
have  been  possible  in  the  daylight.  She  did  not 
look  at  the  stars,  the  wind  passed  almost  unheeded, 
the  dark  common  with  its  lines  of  trees  drawn 
sharply  beneath  the  lower  and  fainter  stars,  re- 
ceived no  glance,  but  nevertheless  they  influenced 
her.  The  very  breath  of  romance  stole  to  her 
across  their  spaces,  and  the  night,  with  its  con- 
stellations and  its  murmurs,  inspired  in  her  the 
exquisite  sense  of  being  abroad  with  a  huge  com- 
pany of  lovers.  All  lovers  met  at  twilight.  She 
was  one  of  them,  she  was  one  with  them. 


GWENNIE  ALONE  155 

V 

At  last  she  sat  up,  yawned,  shook  her  hair  out 
of  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her.  Slowly  she 
swung  her  legs  off  the  bed,  thumped  on  to  the 
floor  and  padded  across  the  room  to  her  coat 
which  was  hanging  behind  the  door.  From  its 
pocket  she  took  a  newspaper  and  a  novel.  Return- 
ing to  the  bed  she  slid  under  the  counterpane 
again  and  opened  the  newspaper.  She  searched 
through  it  till  she  found  the  headline :  "  Soldier's 
Divorce  Suit,"  and  then  she  began  to  read.  Her 
face  was  grave  and  her  eyes  did  not  wander  from 
the  letterpress.  Very  far  away  and  completely 
detached  from  her,  she  heard  the  hall  door  open 
and  shut,  and  some  one  come  up  to  the  landing 
below  hers.  Mr.  Hyde  had  returned.  Her  brain 
merely  ticked  off  the  knowledge  but  passed  no 
comment  on  it.  She  had  forgotten  all  actual  cir- 
cumstances; uncle,  auntie,  dinner-time,  after  din- 
ner, the  blue  blouse,  the  wonder  why  auntie  was 
wearing  anything  so  new  and  dainty  on  an  ordinary 
week-day;  they  were  all  forgotten.  The  sounds 
in  the  house,  and  in  the  garden,  and  in  the  streets, 


156  TEN  HOURS 

did  not  pierce  through  to  her  intelligence.  She 
lay  in  a  nest  of  warmth  and  fragrance,  greedily 
reading  the  love-letters  of  a  neurotic  girl.  By  her, 
on  the  pillow,  the  novel  was  a  dark  crimson 
splash.  .  .  . 

The  door  on  the  landing  below  was  opened  and 
then  shut;  footsteps  went  down  to  the  morning- 
room,  its  door  opened  and  closed.  The  house 
was  quiet  again. 


PART  III 
RESPONSIBILITY 

"Till  the  house  called  hers,  not  mine, 
With  a  growing  weight 
Seems  to  suffocate, 
If  she  break  not  its  leaden  line, 
And  escape  from  its  close  confine." 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 


CHAPTER  IX 
SITTING  SEWING 

FOR  a  little  while  after  Gwennie  had  gone  upstairs, 
Celia  did  not  move  from  the  fireside.  Then  she 
reflected  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  see  what  father 
was  doing.  He  was  certain  to  be  in  the  garden; 
he  had  never  been  known  to  slip  out  and  seek  a 
public-house;  tender  supervision  had  apparently 
dulled  those  inclinations.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
best  to  be  on  the  safe  side ! 

She  took  her  crochet  to  the  chair  by  the  window. 

The  first  thing  she  saw  was  father.  A  black 
velvet  Homburg  hat  had  replaced  the  cap;  he 
wore  an  overcoat  and  gardening  gloves,  and  he 
was  bending  over  the  rockery  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  removing  from  it  handsful  of  the  stone- 
colored  skeleton  leaves  fallen  from  the  poplars. 

Celia  watched  him  affectionately.  She  saw  the 
little  heap  of  leaves  on  the  path  beside  him  grow- 
ing larger;  she  knew,  though  she  could  not  at  this 
distance  see,  the  nature  of  the  litter  on  the  sticky 
159 


160  TEN  HOURS 

mold:  dry  curled  creeper  leaves  which  chattered 
when  touched;  brown  tangles  of  last  year's  ferns, 
and  amid  them  the  tight  little  golden  knots  of  the 
new  fronds;  white  sapless  stems,  trails  of  jenny- 
creeper  and  budding  masses  of  rock  arabis. 

"  Poor  old  garden,"  she  thought,  "  I'd  like  to 
have  it  filled  with  flowers,  not  just  a  few  lanky 
things.  I'd  like  violas,  and  pansies,  and  roses; 
all  the  ducky  little  low  plants.  It  would  cost  such 
a  lot  though." 

She  sighed,  shaking  her  head.  Say  she  bought 
a  few  roots,  they  wouldn't  make  much  of  a  show; 
you  wanted  great  splashes  of  color.  She  would 
like  to  have  it  all  mauve  and  white.  It  would  cost 
a  frightful  lot. 

Her  glance  wandered  deliberately  to  the  type- 
writer, the  periodicals,  and  then  rose  to  the  book- 
shelves. They  cost  a  lot  too.  For  half  their  value 
she  could  have  the  garden  splashed  with  violas, 
frothed  with  marguerites,  and  auriculas,  and 
white  Paris  daisies.  .  .  .  The  withered  rags  of 
dead  chrysanthemums  and  the  fawn  hummocks 
of  dead  thrift  lay  mournfully  under  the  window. 
The  books  stared  at  her,  the  typewriter  glittered. 


SITTING  SEWING  161 

Her  gaze  returned  to  father.  Then  she  looked 
across  the  bridge  to  the  common. 

Cloud  towered  above  its  rim,  threatening  but 
not  yet  engulfing  the  sun.  The  allotment  holders 
were  out  on  their  plots,  and  the  sound  of  spade 
striking  against  stone  came  clearly  through  the  air. 

Her  mood  was  not  such  as  to  find  beauty  or 
interest  in  the  common.  Playing  silently  and 
sedulously  within  her  was  that  craving  for  the 
country,  for  its  liberal  heights  poised  above  the 
breast  of  the  fields,  for  the  mildness  of  its  grays 
and  greens,  the  warm  tones  of  its  villages.  Though 
she  had  driven  these  discontents  from  her  mind 
and  regained  something  at  least  of  her  usual  se- 
renity, the  rising  and  falling  of  pistons,  and  the 
smokes  drowning  the  perfume  of  the  garden, 
jarred  on  her  nerves.  She  wanted  profound  un- 
ending silence;  great  wells  of  silence  in  which  one 
could  lie  and  watch  the  soundless  traffic  of  the 
clouds,  and  the  noiseless  movements  of  ants,  and 
tiny  flies,  and  snails,  while  in  the  distances  horses 
drew  the  plows  down  between  the  markings  of  the 
tilled  land. 

The  cloud  mounted  over  the  sun,  the  burning 


162  TEN  HOURS 

fires  amid  the  trees  in  the  side  roads  flickered  out, 
rain  sheeted  down,  and  all  the  savagery,  all  the 
sullenness  of  the  open  space,  leapt  to  meet  the 
wind.  The  meager  trees  rocked  violently;  the 
gorse  bushes  gripped  the  sand,  shaking  themselves 
like  black  humped  animals;  the  grass  with  its  stony 
patches  and  its  fawn  widths  rotted  in  last  year's 
drought,  its  gravel  paths  thrusting  here  and  there, 
all  seemed  to  greet  the  squall  with  a  ferocious 
pleasure,  writhing  angular  boughs,  baring  soil  to 
the  stabs  of  the  rain,  rattling  and  hissing.  .  .  . 

Father  came  hurrying  up  the  path  and  she 
heard  the  scullery  door  slam. 

"Poor  Robert!"  she  thought,  "but  he's  sure 
to  have  his  poncho,  and  he  can  stand  up  some- 
where." Then,  "  Mr.  Hyde'll  get  caught." 

Involuntarily  her  eyes  sought  the  clock.  Ten 
minutes  past  three.  She  bent  her  eyes  over  the 
crochet,  her  mouth  in  a  nonchalant  pout.  Father 
came  in. 

"  Ha,  ha !  I  was  driven  indoors,  but  it's  only  a 
passing  shower.  You  can  see  the  end  of  it." 

"  Have  a  rest  while  you're  waiting,"  Celia  sug- 
gested. "  Then  you  can  go  out  again." 


SITTING  SEWING  163 

"  Yes.  I'm  not  sorry  for  the  chance  as  I've 
done  two  more  verses.  The  inspiration  of  man- 
ual labor,  you  see  !  Ha !  ha !  " 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  write.  After  a  few 
minutes  he  looked  consciously  at  her. 

"  Read  it  out,"  she  said,  her  eyes  dwelling  on 
him  with  that  tolerant,  wise,  and  yet  faintly  pro- 
testing look.  "  I  haven't  heard  the  first  yet, 
you  know." 

"  I'll  read  all  three." 

In  his  high  drone  he  recited, — 

"  O  duty,  in  my  days  of  manhood's  prime 
Not  wholly  mean,  and  ne'er  effeminate, 
What  are  you  now  in  this  slow  present  time? 
Why  bring  you  me  unto  a  woman's  state? 

"  A  rod  by  Celia  wielded  every  day, 

You  check  my  movements  and  direct  the  same; 
1  A  light  to  guide !  '     But  in  this  winter  gray 
You  shine  but  as  a  winter  candle  flame. 

"  Such  little  tasks  to  fill  the  manly  mind, 

And  yet  each  plays  no  unimportant  part 
In  that  machine  the  household,  and  I  find 
E'en  pricking  biscuits  can  its  peace  impart." 

He  paused. 

"  That's  ripping,"  his  daughter  said,  "  simply 
ripping.  I  like  that  line,  '  You  check  my  move- 


164  TEN  HOURS 

ments  and — and — '  I  forget  the  rest,  but  it  came  in 

awfully  pat." 

Father  waved  a  deprecating  and  shaky  hand. 
"  It  suggested  Pope  to  you,  perhaps,  if  that  isn't 
too  large  a  claim  to  make.  1  think  I  belong 
to  the  classical  school  rather  than  to  the  ro- 
mantic." 

His  eyes  brooded  over  the  poem. 

II 

When  the  rain  stopped  he  roused  himself,  and 
after  a  few  rambling  remarks,  left  her  alone.  In 
a  moment  she  saw  him  walking  down  the  gar- 
den again. 

"  He  really  ought  not  be  out  in  all  that  damp," 
she  reflected.  "  It's  fearfully  bad  for  his  rheu- 
matism— still,  he  seems  happy  enough.  I'd  better 
leave  him  alone.  He's  on  the  gravel  too." 

The  house  was  very  quiet. 

Then  the  front  gate  creaked.  She  heard  the 
sound  of  a  key  inserted  in  the  lock,  the  opening 
and  closing  of  the  front  door,  and  light  firm  steps 
on  the  staircase. 

Two  red  spots  appeared  in  her  cheeks.  Her 
crochet  needle  stabbed  at  the  close  pattern,  and 


SITTING  SEWING  165 

missed  its  hole.  She  was  aware  from  head  to 
foot  of  the  strong  light  which  bathed  her,  of  the 
silence  of  the  little  room,  and  its  warm  fire- 
smelling  air. 

The  footsteps  passed  the  door  and  went  up  to 
the  next  landing. 

She  began  to  hum  breathlessly,  her  mind  bent 
on  the  evolution  of  the  crochet  pattern.  Her  ears 
seemed  to  tremble  with  the  strain  of  listening  to 
the  movements  in  the  front  bedroom. 

The  steps  descended  again.  Her  breath  came 
in  pants;  gold  and  blue  currents  swirled  before 
her  eyes;  the  steel  crochet  hook  was  the  one  firm 
thing  in  a  world  slipping  away  from  her  with  the 
smooth  facility  of  water. 

Outside  the  door,  which  was  slightly  open,  the 
steps  paused.  A  voice  said  weakly, 

"Are  you  there,  Mrs.  Jennings?" 

Her  heart  jerked.  Solid  things  emerged  from 
that  flowing  tide  and  touched  and  supported  her: 
floor,  walls,  the  chair,  the  window-frame.  "  Yes. 
I'm  in  here." 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"  Certainly." 

Mr.  Hyde  came  in. 


CHAPTER  X 
LEONARD  HYDE 

CELIA  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  The 
light  behind  her  made  her  hair  like  yellow  smoke ; 
her  face  was  in  shadow,  but  her  eyes  and  her 
mouth  were  noticeable,  and  the  wildness  of  the 
former  and  the  blossomy  bunch  of  the  latter  made 
Leonard  think  of  Rossetti's  Blessed  Damozel. 

He  came  slowly  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Neither  spoke  but  their  glances  held  and  their 
attitudes,  imperceptibly  changing  as  each  felt  the 
influence  of  the  other's  personality  were  expressive. 

Celia's  right  shoulder  had  risen  to  her  ear  and 
she  looked  at  him  over  it  as  over  a  barricade;  her 
knees  had  come  together  and  her  elbows  were 
pressed  to  her  sides. 

Leonard  was  hollowing  his  chest  and  lessening 
his  height  as  he  came  to  her  as  if  in  involuntary 
deference  or  submission.  He  smiled,  too,  although 
timidly. 

166 


LEONARD  HYDE  167 

Celia  smiled  back  with  a  suddenly  regained 
composure, 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  if  you  can  dry  your 
overcoat  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire?"  she  said, 
giving  her  head  a  pert  little  shake.  "  I  expect 
you  were  caught?  " 

"  No,  I  was  in  the  tram.  I  saw  the  door  open 
and — and  I  thought  I'd  just  like  to — like  to 
look  in." 

"  Very  kind  of  you,"  Celia  said  briskly,  and 
scanned  his  overcoat  and  the  hat  he  was  carrying. 

He  laughed  nervously  and  his  glance  shifted 
to  the  window.  His  mouth  twitched  a  little. 

Celia  said  no  more.  She  thought  Mr.  Hyde  a 
tremendous  gentleman  and  she  was  at  once  de- 
fensive and  impressed.  She  was  not  going  to 
trouble  to  be  nice  to  him.  On  the  other  hand,  no 
one  could  deny  that  he  was  very  nice  to  her.  Her 
sharpest  gaze  could  detect  no  patronage  in  his 
manner. 

Leonard  Hyde  was  twenty-six.  He  was  tall 
and  compactly  built  but  his  stoop  now  made  him 
appear  slighter  and  shorter  than  he  actually  was. 
He  had  a  broad  white  brow  which  furrowed 


1 68  TEN  HOURS 

deeply  when  he  smiled;  brushed  straight  back 
from  it  was  a  high  sweep  of  slightly  waving  black 
hair.  His  eyes  were  golden  brown  and  rather 
humorous  and  pleasant;  his  nose  straight,  and  the 
flesh  beneath  it  full  though  the  lips  themselves 
were  thin.  He  wore  a  navy  blue  overcoat,  and 
showed  a  good  deal  of  shirt  front,  which  together 
with  a  black  bow  at  his  neck,  and  light  mauve 
socks,  gave  him  a  dandyish  appearance.  Celia 
thought  him  extremely  good-looking. 

This  opinion  stirred  in  her  again  now  though 
she  would  not  admit  its  existence.  She  continued 
her  crochet,  every  nerve  aware  of  his  figure,  his 
uneasiness,  and  his  fading  smile.  Her  mind  felt 
like  an  empty  room  with  thoughts  whispering  and 
pushing  outside  its  door.  She  did  not  think;  she 
did  not  even  reflect  that  she  ought  to  speak  to  him 
or  offer  him  a  chair.  She  was  made  utterly  numb 
and  helpless  by  his  presence.  Yet  she  was  un- 
aware of  what  his  influence  over  her  portended; 
she  hardly  realized  its  intensity. 

He  was  scarcely  less  constrained.  His  eyes 
wandered  to  the  nearest  chair;  his  lips  moved  \n 


LEONARD  HYDE  169 

unspoken  words.  When  at  last  she  glanced  des- 
perately at  him,  he  crimsoned. 

"  May — may  I  stop  for  a  minute?  I  mean— > 
I'm  not  bothering  you?  I  ...  There  are  one 
or  two  things  I'd  like  to  say." 

Her  sensible  briskness  returned  now  that  his 
visit  was  partially  explained,  or  at  least  justified. 

"  Of  course  you're  not  bothering  me.  Sit  down. 
I  can  do  this  without  looking  at  it — almost." 

She  shook  the  crochet  and  smiled  at  him  in  a 
friendly  manner  which  at  once  reassured  him.  He 
pulled  the  chair  near  to  hers  and  sat  down. 

"  Thanks."  He  beamed,  looking  at  her  from 
the  corners  of  his  eyes  with  an  engagingly  mirthful 
expression  which  was  yet  free  from  any  familiarity. 

Because  she  liked  the  expression,  and  because 
she  was  overwhelmed  by  his  nearness,  Celia's 
momentary  return  of  ease  withered  suddenly. 
Her  head  drooped,  but  the  flush  of  her  face  sank 
down  to  her  throat  and  burnt  there. 

Leonard  plunged  into  rapid  speech.  "  It's  so 
awfully  cozy  in  here,  and  I  get  fed  up  with  myself; 
I  feel  I  want  to  talk  to  some  one,  you  know.  Of 


170  TEN  HOURS 

course  there  are  the  fellows  at  the  office,  but — 
well,  they  are  fellows,  and  I  think  a  man  wants  a 
woman  to  talk  to  sometimes,  don't  you?  " 

Celia's  greeny-blue  eyes  darted  a  rather  per- 
plexed glance  at  him.  Involuntarily  her  shoulder 
lifted  and  she  made  a  funny  reticent  little  mouth. 

The  three  movements  charmed  him.  He  smiled 
so  broadly  that  his  brow  became  corrugated  and 
small  lines  spread  fan-wise  from  the  corners  of  his 
eyes.  He  crooked  one  arm  over  the  chair  back 
and  leant  nearer. 

"It  sounds  funny,  doesn't  it?  But  you  know 
what  I  mean.  Some  one  sympathetic.  There's 
nothing  like  a  woman  for  that." 

In  any  one  else  Celia  would  have  found  these 
views  and  the  air  of  sagacity  and  experience  with 
which  they  were  delivered,  extremely  amusing. 
Coming  from  him  they  touched  her,  though  her 
humor  could  not  resist  a  little  dig. 

"  It  sounds  rather  pathetic,  I  think." 

Leonard  laughed.  "  That's  always  the  way. 
A  thing  a  fellow  feels  deeply  always  sounds  terrible 
when  it's  expressed.  If  I  told  you  all  I  felt  I 
expect  I  should  only  make  you  laugh." 


LEONARD  HYDE  171 

His  lips  remained  smiling, 'but  his  eyes  as  they 
met  hers  were  not  quite  candid.  There  was  inter- 
rogation in  them,  uneasiness,  and  some  other  emo- 
tion which  she  could  not  name.  The  glance  and 
the  way  in  which  he  drew  one  hand  over  the  other 
betrayed  nervousness,  and  she  was  infected  with 
the  same  unreasonable  agitation  which  she  detected 
in  him.  Her  heart  fluttered  and  she  averted 
her  eyes. 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  laugh.  I  don't  mind  any  one 
stammering.  I  don't  like  people  to  talk  as  if 
they've  rehearsed  every  word  beforehand.  It 
isn't  natural." 

"  No,  that's  so.  And  you  can  always  tell  when 
a  fellow's  posing.  I  mean  every  word  I  say,  and 
I  daresay  I'm  frightfully  egotistical,  but  living  in 
one  room  by  yourself,  miles  away  from  your 
people — well,  how  can  you  help  getting  self- 
centered?" 

"  Of  course  you  can't,"  Celia  agreed.  "  You're 
acquitted  of  that  charge,  Mr.  Hyde  !" 

He  placed  his  hand  on  his  shirt-front  and 
bowed.  They  both  laughed,  exchanging  intimate 
and  sympathetic  glances.  Both  received  sharp 


172  TEN  HOURS 

little  impressions:  Leonard  noticed  the  softness 
of  Celia's  cheeks  and  throat,  and  the  dips  and 
curls  of  that  enchanting  mouth;  Celia  the  texture 
of  his  skin  and  hair,  and  the  little  woolly  balls  on 
his  overcoat.  His  foot  was  almost  touching  hers. 
As  he  leant  forward,  rounding  his  shoulders,  his 
crumpled  shirt-front,  the  black  bow,  and  his  white 
restless  hands,  seemed  to  be  smothering  her,  to 
be  blotting  out  the  room,  driving  her  to  the  wall. 

She  crocheted  wildly. 

"  I  value  that  awfully — being  acquitted  by 
you,  I  mean,"  he  said.  "  I'd — I'd  rather  have 
your  good  opinion  than  that  of  any  one  I  know." 
He  ended  breathlessly,  and  there  was  a  moment's 
silence. 

Then  Celia,  without  looking  at  him,  said  casu- 
ally, "  Because  I'm  a  woman,  -I  suppose,  and  can 
give  you  that  sympathy  you  need  so  badly." 

"  That's  it."     His  laugh  sounded  forced. 

"  Oh  well,  if  you  don't  confess  any  very  terrible 
sins  to  me,  I  won't  judge  you  very  hardly." 

"Thanks;  that's  comforting."  His  voice  was 
strained,  and  he  did  not  continue. 

Celia's  brain  whirled,  seeking  for  subjects  for 


LEONARD  HYDE  173 

small-talk;  whirled  in  a  blankness,  a  black- 
ness. .  .  . 

The  room  was  saturated  in  silence;  the  walls 
strained  away  from  that  silence;  the  spurts  and 
thrills  of  the  fire  were  strangled  by  it.  A  great 
wash  of  sound  flowed  by  the  window  but  it  be- 
longed to  another  world.  They  sat  in  solitude; 
they  swung  in  a  little  pearl  cage  somewhere  near 
the  immense  races  of  the  sky,  in  the  very  heart  of 
such  established  and  irremovable  things  as  sun, 
space,  light.  Earth  was  leagues  beneath  them. 

Then  with  a  bump  the  cage  struck  the  earth. 
Leonard  spoke,  breaking  the  spell,  dispersing 
the  hush. 

"  I  could  talk  to  you  for  hours  only  I  suppose 
you'd  think  me  a  most  thundering  bore,  but  if  you 
didn't — there  are  all  sorts  of  things  I  want  advice 
on;  things  that  want  a  woman's  common-sense, 
you  know,  and  intuition.  Fellows  are  so  thick- 
witted.  They  don't  understand  that  you  want  to 
think  sometimes,  not  always  go  fooling  round, 
larking.  I  think  you  want  to  think  sometimes, 
don't  you,  not  go  butting  into  a  thing,  but  consider 
it  first,  look  at  it  all  round,  and  try  and  see  what 


174  TEN  HOURS 

you  really  ought  to  do — what  it's  right  to  do, 
don't  you  ?  " 

Celia's  speculative  eyes  dwelt  on  his.  Surprise 
helped  her  to  forget  her  own  sensations.  She  was 
engrossed.  His  expansiveness  and  his  look  of 
worry  and  appeal  went  straight  to  her  heart,  and 
roused  impulses  which  were  irresistibly  strong. 
She  felt  herself  to  be  in  touch  not  only  with  his 
body  but  with  his  soul.  Responsiveness  rose  in 
her  like  a  tide,  drowning  her  heart,  surging  to  her 
lips  and  her  eyes. 

She  spoke  with  a  rush  as  if  her  words  had  in- 
deed been  borne  out  on  a  wave  of  feeling.  "Cer- 
tainly, I  do.  You  get  yourself  into  all  kinds  of 
scrapes  if  you  don't.  What  particular  bother  are 
you  thinking  of?  ...  There!  That  sounds  as 
if  I'm  pumping  you,  doesn't  it?  I  didn't  mean  to 
put  it  that  way.  .  .  .  Could  you  pass  me  that 
work-box,  please  ?  Thank  you." 

Her  heart  was  hammering  against  her  sides. 
Her  affrighted  self  was  flying  desperately  into  its 
fastnesses,  huddling  and  hiding  there.  Gracious ! 
to  ask  him  to  confide  in  her!  Most  improper! 
Absolutely  preposterous. 


LEONARD  HYDE  175 

She  sat  very  straight,  her  ankles  touching,  her 
knees  hard  against  each  other,  her  mouth  non- 
chalantly composed. 

"  But  I  want  to  be  pumped !  "  Leonard  ex- 
claimed nai'vely.  "  That's  my  difficulty — finding 
some  one  who'll  straighten  things  out  for  me,  and 
be  serious — and — and.  .  .  ." 

"  Helpful,"  Celia  supplied  in  a  firm  practical 
voice.  "  Well,  I'm  not  a  Methusaleh,  you  know. 
My  vision's  limited!  But  if  there's  anything  of 
value  to  you  in  my  vast  experience  .  .  . !  " 

Leonard  laughed,  but  only  shortly.  His 
harassed  weighty  look  settled  down  upon  him 
again  almost  at  once. 

"  I'd  be  awfully  glad  if  you  would  let  me  run 
on,"  he  said  with  solemn  feeling.  "  Things  are 
so  important  and  if  you  muddle  them — it's  a  mat- 
ter of  your  whole  life." 

Celia's  irrepressible  flippancy  broke  out. 
"  Gracious !  That  sounds  rather  alarming.  I 
don't  think  I  want  the  responsibility  of  arranging 
your  future,  Mr.  Hyde." 

Her  pertness  amused  him  again.  They  both 
laughed,  with  a  recurrence  of  that  intimate  and 


176  TEN  HOURS 

confiding  glance.  Both  were  at  ease.  The  little 
shining  room  with  its  shadows  floating  up  from 
the  floor  to  the  dipping  light,  seemed  suddenly 
full  of  comfort  and  security.  Behind  it  the  whole 
solid  silent  weight  of  the  house  was  set  protectively. 

"  Well,  fire  away,"  Celia  continued,  "  and  you 
shall  have  the  benefit  of  a  womanly  adviser — if 
that's  what  you  want." 

She  looked  softly  at  him,  and  then  through  the 
window  at  father,  who  was  still  working  in  the 
garden. 

II 

After  a  moment  Leonard  began  jerkily. 

"  I  went  down  home  this  week.  My  brother 
was  married  and  I  had  to  be  best  man." 

"How  interesting!  You  didn't  tell  me  at  the 
time."  Faint  reproach  was  in  her  voice  and  her 
glance.  "  I  love  weddings." 

"  Do  you?    I  didn't  think  you'd  be  interested." 

"  Frightfully  interested,  of  course.  What  did 
the  bride  look  like?  I  think  a  wedding's  awful 
fun." 

She  squeezed  her  elbows  impulsively  to  her  sides 
and  turned  her  animated  face  to  him. 


LEONARD  HYDE  177 

He  stared  soberly  at  her.  "Do  you?  They 
never  struck  me  as  fun.  I  think  they're  rather — 
rather  awful.  So  solemn,  I  mean,  a  matter  of 
your  whole  life." 

"  His  life  seems  to  weigh  upon  him,"  Celia 
reflected.  Aloud  she  answered.  "  Oh  well,  of 
course,  I  know  they  are  really,  but  not  if  you're 
only  a  spectator.  It's  great  fun  then,  looking  at 
the  dresses  and  watching  other  people  being  tied 
up.  It's  more  fun  to  be  a  spectator  than  an  actor," 
she  added,  the  words  driven  out  of  her  by  a  little 
swift  ebullition  of  bitterness.  Other  people  had 
watched  her  and  Robert  being  "  tied  up  " ;  had 
known  the  glamor  would  fade,  and  the  romance 
wither. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  should  think,"  Leonard 
assented.  "  You'd  be  so  awfully  worried  whether 
you'd  made  the  right  choice." 

Celia  shot  a  sharp  glance  at  him.  Was  there  a 
personal  application  in  this? 

He  was  gazing  seriously  through  the  window 
and  she  felt  assured. 

"  Still — if  you  were  in  love,  you  wouldn't  be 
worried,  I  suppose?  "  she  said,  a  little  dryly.  "  It 


178  TEN  HOURS 

wouldn't  be  much  of  a  compliment  to  the  lady.'' 

He  did  not  smile.  "  I  should  think  if  you  would 
be  in  love  the  risk  would  be  greater,"  he  said, 
"  because  then  you'd  be  blind,  and  not  see  any 
faults.  You'd  find  'em  out  when  it  was  too  late — 
and  be  tied  for  life  to  'em." 

Celia  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  That's  a  part 
of  the  fun  of  the  thing.  It's  no  good  expecting 
any  one  to  be  perfect.  They  find  faults  in  you 
too,  and  they're  tied  to  you  for  life.  It's  the  same 
both  sides.  .  .  .  Gracious !  we  are  getting  moral- 
istic! Are  you  contemplating  matrimony  and  is 
that  what  you  want  advice  on?  " 

She  said  the  words  lightly,  but  directly  they 
were  uttered  she  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  stab  at 
her  heart. 

"Oh  no,"  Leonard  disclaimed,  ''I'm  not;  not 
at  all;  I  was  thinking  of  my  brother." 

Celia  smiled. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  what  an  awful  risk  it 
was,"  Leonard  continued,  "  not  knowing  whether 
you'd  be  happy  or  not,  and  bound  down  in  any 
case ;  not  able  to  get  away;  your  whole  life  ruined." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  the  blackest  side!  "  Celia  pro- 


LEONARD  HYDE  179 

tested.  Ruin  was  such  a  strong  term!  She 
couldn't  pretend  that  marriage  was  a  perpetual 
ecstasy,  a  dream,  an  intoxication,  as  it  might  have 
been,  as  perhaps  it  was,  during  those  first  few 
hours  when  Robert  was  so  loving  and  consider- 
ate. But  ruin! 

"  People's  hearts  don't  break  so  easily,  Mr. 
Hyde.  You  rub  along  all  right,  even  if  you're 
not  in  the  seventh  heaven  any  longer.  It  would 
be  silly  to  talk  about  the  world  being  shattered 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing  just  because  you  find 
your  partner  can  say — "  She  paused  with  a 
gleam  of  roguery.  "Ssh!"  she  breathed,  and 
shook  her  head.  "  It's  a  case  for  euphuism,  isn't 
it?  Can  shout  a  one-syllable  objurgation  at 
you !  " 

Leonard  laughed.  His  eyes  absorbed  her  face. 
"  I  believe  you'd  be  fine  enough  to  stand  anything 
and  face  it  like  a  brick!"  he  exclaimed  rapidly, 
his  voice  vibrating. 

Celia  started  and  flushed.  A  thrill  caught  her, 
paralyzing  her  heart,  making  her  hands  and  feet 
feel  cold  and  the  rest  of  her  body  warm. 

Again  the  inner  and  romantic  Celia  fled,  and 


i8o  TEN  HOURS 

the  sensible  Mrs.  Jennings  became  apparent,  de- 
murely upright  and  stiff. 

"  Dear!  dear!  I'm  afraid  I  don't  deserve  that 
tribute.  But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  what  your 
brother's  wedding  was  like." 

She  forced  herself  to  look  composedly  at  him, 
and  slight  waves  of  agitation  moistened  her  skin, 
and  drew  her  breath  in  flutters  through  her  lips, 
as  she  saw  his  flush,  his  nervous  movements,  and 
the  warmth  of  his  eyes. 

She  endured  an  extraordinary  sense  of  being 
alone  in  the  center  of  a  great  space  brushed  rud- 
dily  with  light  which  did  not  illuminate  but  ob- 
scure, and  she  felt  herself  to  be  advancing  through 
that  light  towards  something  which  lay  beyond  its 
sheet.  She  looked  at  Leonard,  yet  she  hardly  saw 
him.  A  mist  stretched  thinly  between  them.  She 
could  not  see  him  nor  the  quiet  room  because  of 
the  light  which  blinded  her,  which  drowned  her. 

She  trembled.  Desire  to  move  her  chair  farther 
from  his  became  overpowering,  but  she  was  un- 
able to  stir.  Her  mind  darted  out  towards 
Robert,  seeking  support,  seeking  anchor  and 
safety.  With  swift  strokes  her  imagination  drew 


LEONARD  HYDE  181 

his  face,  good  and  placid.  Then  it  shrank  from 
its  own  faithful  presentation.  Robert  was  noth- 
ing. .  .  . 

With  wide  blank  eyes  she  pierced  that  mist  and 
looked  at  Leonard,  concentrating  herself  on  his 
straight  features,  his  clear  eyes,  the  mobile  sensi- 
tiveness of  his  mouth. 

Then  she  looked  at  her  hand,  shaking  on  her 
knee.  Stupidly  a  voice  in  her  said,  "  What's  the 
matter  with  me?  What  on  earth  is  the  matter 
with  me?" 

The  question  remained  unanswered. 


III 

Leonard  shifted  his  position.  His  growing 
excitement  dismayed  him.  He  could  neither  order 
nor  control  his  thoughts;  they  danced  like  imps 
along  forbidden  routes.  His  sensations  mastered 
him.  They  urged  him  to  reckless  terrifying  ac- 
tion, and  though  he  did  not  lessen  the  distance 
between  himself  and  Celia,  though  he  plunged 
again  into  impersonal  speech,  he  was  nevertheless 
following  them,  not  directly  but  by  devious  and 


1 82  TEN  HOURS 

stealthy  ways;  he  was  deliberately  deceiving  him- 
self; shutting  his  eyes  to  his  progress. 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  right,"  he  said,  answering  her 
question  about  the  wedding.  "  I've  a  photo  of 
the  bride.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  see  it." 

He  took  out  his  pocketbook. 

Some  uncontrollable  impulse  made  Celia  bend 
towards  him.  Her  movements  had  become  auto- 
matic. She  was  no  longer  mistress  of  herself.  All 
familiar  and  accepted  ideals,  standpoints,  conven- 
tions, rules,  seemed  to  have  ebbed  away.  She 
moved  in  a  waste  under  the  guidance  of  some  new 
force,  never  before  felt,  not  now  definable,  but 
recognized  as  strong  and  sure;  a  force  which  de- 
manded and  obtained  her  acquiescence;  before 
which  these  ideals,  standpoints,  conventions,  rules, 
went  down  like  straws.  Nothing  in  all  her  experi- 
ence was  competent  to  deal  with  it.  She  did  not 
even  know  as  yet  whether  it  should  be  dealt  with 
as  an  enemy  or  obeyed  as  a  virtue.  Her  mind  had 
not  as  yet  scrutinized  it;  only  her  body  knew  it, 
and  obeyed  it  unhesitatingly. 

She  looked  at  the  pocketbook,  but  her  gaze 
saw  also,  still  through  that  thin  luminous  mist,  his 


LEONARD  HYDE  183 

hands,  his  well-kept  nails,  his  wrist.  Breathing 
thickly,  Leonard  too  leant  nearer.  His  temple 
touched  her  hair  and  the  contact  drove  his  strength 
from  him.  He  could  smell  its  fragrance,  he  could 
see  the  curve  of  eyelash,  and  cheek-bone.  Mutely 
he  extended  the  photo;  greedily  he  absorbed  the 
enervating  influence  of  her  nearness. 

Celia  stared  at  the  photo;  the  warmth  of  his 
cheek  came  in  a  gust  to  hers;  she  heard  his  irregu- 
lar breathing,  she  sat  in  a  dream,  not  moving,  not 
thinking,  desiring  only  to  perpetuate  this  moment 
indefinitely.  .  .  . 

Then  gradually  exterior  things  communicated 
with  her.  She  was  conscious  again  of  impressions, 
and  of  painful  ones.  The  photo  was  of  a  group, 
and  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  bride,  classically 
unsmiling,  to  the  bridegroom,  and  the  wedding- 
guests.  Subtly  they  expressed  good-breeding. 
She  could  name  no  particular  thing  as  belonging 
to  a  social  scale  above  her  own,  she  only  knew 
that  the  woman  looked  "  high-school,"  the  men 
university. 

She  was  "  private  school." 

The  unthinking  ecstasy  of  the  moment   was 


1 84  TEN  HOURS 

destroyed.  She  was  back  again  amid  displeasing 
facts,  her  heart  heavier  for  that  brief  inexplicable 
state  of  joy. 

"  It's  very  good,"  she  said,  her  voice  thin  and 
hard,  "  awfully  good." 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  it.  Jealously  she 
examined  the  youngest  and  prettiest  of  the  women. 
If  she  were  dressed  like  that  she  would  look  as 
nice.  She  was  tall  and  slender,  her  feet  and  hands 
were  well  shaped.  Was  there  among  those  girls 
one  who  had  provoked  Leonard  to  his  interest 
in  marriage? 

She  shivered. 

"  I  must  make  the  fire  up,"  she  said.  "  It's 
getting  cold  in  here." 

She  went  to  the  fire  and  knelt  down  on  the  rug. 
Blindly  she  felt  for  the  shovel.  Her  hands  were 
like  ice,  and  shivers  crept  along  her  flesh.  Again 
her  mind  said,  "  What  is  the  matter  with  me?  " 

She  heard  a  movement  and  Leonard  was  bend- 
ing over  her,  drawing  the  shovel  from  her  hands. 
She  sat  back  on  her  heels  and  watched  him.  Then 
she  got  up  and  stood  by  the  table,  her  contracted 


LEONARD  HYDE  185 

attitude,  her  bent  head,  eloquent  of  apprehension 
and  alarmed  modesty. 

When  he  had  finished  he  faced  her.  She  did  not 
look  up  nor  speak,  and  his  gaze  became  passion- 
ate. The  beat  of  his  heart  and  pulses  quickened. 

IV 

Leonard  loved  Celia. 

He  was  a  cautious  and  rather  selfish  young  man. 
To  him  the  preeminent  thing  on  earth  was  the 
happiness  of  his  own  life.  He  had  observed  people 
and  conditions,  and  he  conceived  the  superficial 
knowledge  thus  gained  to  be  a  vast  wisdom  and 
experience.  A  man  of  the  world,  unemotional, 
discerning,  skeptical,  and  without  illusions — such 
was  his  estimate  of  his  own  psychology.  You 
could  not  come  through  four  years  of  the  Army 
without  "  knowing  everything."  Vices,  pit-falls, 
snares,  defeats — he  had  seen  them  all  and, 
alarmed  at  their  devastating  effects,  he  had  de- 
termined to  step  warily,  probing  with  mistrustful 
eyes  everything  that  came  to  him.  He  was  not 
going  to  be  thrown,  to  make  a  mess  of  his  life  for 


1 86  TEN  HOURS 

the  sake  of  a  momentary  intoxication.  Conse- 
quences— these  obsessed  him.  You  had  to  pay. 
He  did  not  mean  to  spend  all  his  life  paying  for  a 
pleasure  which  had  swiftly  become  stale. 

He  foresaw  in  what  direction  his  own  tempta- 
tion lay.  He  was  profoundly  romantic,  a  mixture 
of  sensuality  and  sentiment,  of  freshness  and 
sophistication.  Sex  engrossed  him,  but  he  was  re- 
solved that  it  should  not  master  him.  A  liaison 
with  a  French  girl  had  initiated  him  into  the  com- 
plexities of  passion.  While  admitting  its  power, 
he  was  also  dismayed  at  its  transitoriness.  Satiety 
had  come  to  the  girl  with  equal  swiftness,  and  he 
was  left  at  the  termination  of  the  affair  with  a 
towering  thankfulness  that  his  mistress  was  so 
variable,  and  an  illuminating  vision  of  what  his 
position  would  have  been  had  she  remained  loving 
and  he,  his  ardor  burnt  out,  been  chafed  with  the 
ugliness  of  an  unwanted  pursuit.  Following  this 
apprehension  came  the  still  more  discomforting 
one — had  she  been  his  wife  and  not  a  light  love 
whom  he  could  after  all  desert,  what  a  chain  would 
have  been  around  him,  what  a  perpetual  cloud 
upon  his  days!  He  was  fresh  enough  to  hold 


LEONARD  HYDE  187 

exalted  ideas  of  marriage.  He  respected  its 
bonds,  and  its  risks  and  responsibilities  were  all 
the  more  intimidating  because  he  knew  that  he 
would  not  break  them  without  severe  self-judg- 
ment, and  even  actual  misery.  Full  of  idealisms 
and  sentimentalities  as  he  was,  it  was  partly  the 
desire  to  preserve  these  which  made  him,  after  he 
had  broken  with  Eugenie,  resist  the  same  tempta- 
tion again,  and  arm  himself  at  all  points  against 
its  attack  and  the  possible  consequence  of  being 
"  taken  in." 

He  suspected  every  woman  he  met  to  be  of 
predatory  instincts.  He  doubted  the  spontaneity 
of  every  smile,  glance,  or  flippancy.  They  were 
deliberate  artifices,  destined  for  his  undoing.  Con- 
temptuously he  mocked  the  power  of  a  tantalizing 
curl,  or  a  charming  dress;  more  snares  these;  he 
saw  through  them ;  there  was  no  fooling  him. 

All  this  watchfulness  and  dissection  of  motives 
meant  that  he  was  continually  pondering  on  love. 
He  became  full  of  sententious  opinions  which 
highly  diverted  the  older  men  to  whom  he  stated 
them.  He  began  to  look  out  for  a  "  good  woman." 
Sooner  or  later  he  must  marry — he  admitted  can- 


1 88  TEN  HOURS 

didly  that  celibacy  did  not  appeal  to  him — but  he 
must  show  the  greatest  discretion  and  wisdom  in 
selecting  a  wife.  He  must  have  some  one  good, 
modest,  sedate,  unstained,  unkissed,  full  of  do- 
mestic virtues,  without  wiles  or  coquetries,  a  per- 
fect helpmeet.  "  After  all  I've  seen  I  You  can't 
be  too  careful.  You're  landed  in  the  divorce  court 
before  you  know  where  you  are."  Imbued  with 
these  fears  and  distrusts,  he  came  to  the  Jennings. 
He  fell  in  love  with  Celia. 

At  first  it  was  merely  a  tremendous  respect 
which  she  aroused  in  him.  She  embodied  all  his 
ideals.  A  fellow  would  feel  safe  with  a  girl  like 
this  for  wife.  She  wouldn't  land  him  in  the  di- 
vorce court.  His  respect  glowed  in  his  smile,  he 
conveyed  it  in  his  handshake.  She  was  pretty  too, 
with  a  look  of  fresh  innocence  and  immaturity 
which  could  not  but  appeal  to  a  jaded  man  of  the 
world.  She  made  him  feel  very  soiled  and  ex- 
perienced. He  found  pleasure  in  treating  her 
with  pronounced  deference.  Worldliness  hum- 
bling itself  to  purity — it  was  not  without  satisfac- 
tion that  he  saw  himself  in  this  light. 
/  Thus,  dwelling  on  his  dangers,  his  incapacity 


LEONARD  HYDE  189 

for  lasting  love,  and  Celia's  virtues  and  physical 
charms,  he  became  vulnerable  at  all  points.  Con- 
templation of  her  and  the  perpetual  inspection  of 
passion  kindled  a  flame.  He  told  himself  that  he 
loved  her  but  that  it  was  a  fine  sexless  romantic 
love  which  asked  no  return,  which  was  ennobling, 
not  debasing. 

For  several  months  he  rather  enjoyed  this  pos- 
session of  a  chivalrous  passion;  then  some  of  the 
fineness  went  out  of  it.  It  became  earthy 
and  clamoring.  He  was  wretched,  frightened, 
tempted. 

He  took  steps  which  would  cut  it  out  of  his  life. 

.       V 

Now,  borne  on  an  irresistible  current  of  desire, 
he  stood  looking  hotly  at  her,  his  thoughts  scorch- 
ing him.  So  passive  had  his  love  primarily  been 
that  it  had  not  led  him  to  penetrate  the  depths  of 
her  life  nor  her  emotions.  He  imagined,  as  did 
Robert,  that  she  was  without  subtleties.  Having 
at  once  established  her  as  the  ideal  wife  and  house- 
wife, he  had  never  questioned  the  validity  of  this 
conception,  nor  searched  for  other  qualities  in  her. 


190  TEN  HOURS 

He  assumed  that  she  was  happy.  It  was  this  very 
idea  of  her  absorption  in  home  duties  which  en- 
slaved him.  Had  he  seen  her  nursing  a  child,  his 
picture  would  have  been  the  finer  for  embracing 
motherhood  as  well  as  wifehood.  He  never 
thought  of  her  as  a  woman  who  could  be  tempted, 
drawn  to  an  illicit  love,  broken.  Until  quite  re- 
cently he  had  desired  not  to  possess  her  but  to 
have  her  as  the  object  of  a  platonic  and  reverential 
worship. 

Now,  his  view  of  her  altered.  Throbbingly  he 
wondered  at  her  embarrassment,  her  flush,  her 
averted  eyes. 

To  silence  those  problems  whose  solution  held 
peril,  he  began  to  speak,  stammering  through  lips 
which  seemed  to  have  thickened. 

"  I — That  wasn't  only  what  I  wanted  to  say  to 
you.  I  mean.  ...  I  came  in  here  for  a  reason." 

Celia  looked  up.  Her  brows  were  slightly  knit; 
her  face  spoke  of  repression.  She  waited,  still 
looking  at  him. 

His  eyes  did  not  drop  from  hers,  but  they 
seemed  to  be  steadied  by  a  will  other  than  his 
own.  Their  expression  said  that  his  own  will  was 


LEONARD  HYDE  191 

endeavoring,  though  vainly,  to  avert  them.  His 
features  had  sharpened  and  he  looked  older. 

"  I  came  to  say — "  Her  appearance  was  as  a 
hand  on  his  throat,  choking  him.  Her  pale  hair, 
her  pale  face,  her  fixed  expressionless  eyes,  her 
soft  mouth,  her  soft  throat,  her  immobile  body, — 
set  in  brilliant  colorless  light  they  were  possessed 
of  an  irresistible  and  assailing  power.  His  blood 
burnt,  his  words  were  forced  back;  and  he  was 
dominated  by  a  cruel,  hungry,  unscrupulous,  desire. 

His  dismay  infected  Celia.  Shivers  of  fear 
swept  across  her  heart;  she  leant  against  the 
table,  and  drew  courage  from  its  solidity. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  What  did  you  want  to  say 
to  me?" 

That  fear  of  making  a  fool  of  himself  warred 
with  his  passion.  All  his  instincts  leapt  up  mili- 
tantly.  Selfishness,  distrust,  caution,  skepticism  of 
the  endurance  of  this  raging  force,  they  were  all 
springing  to  meet  it,  they  were  all  fighting  for 
their  existence. 

They  spurred  on  his  rehearsed  sentences  so  that 
he  uttered  these  stupidly.  "  I'm  hoping  to  set  up 
an  office  of  my  own,  and  start  as  a  chartered  ac- 


192  TEN  HOURS 

countant,  down  at  Felgate.  I  shan't  want  this 
room  any  longer." 

Celia  repeated  "  Down  at  Felgate.  You  won't 
want  this  room  any  longer."  Then,  "  I  see." 

The  sound  of  father's  dragging  footsteps  rose 
to  the  window,  and  ceased.  The  pants  and  moans 
of  the  wind,  the  continuous  lispings  of  the  boughs, 
worried  the  air. 

VI 

Celia  said  again  "  I  see."  Then  understanding 
of  his  words  sank  into  her  like  a  knife  turning  and 
twisting  till  it  reached  her  heart;  then  she  quiv- 
ered; the  light  rose  and  fell  in  bright  hard  waves, 
her  knees  shook. 

Deliberately,  carefully  she  crossed  the  rocking 
floor  and  sat  down  in  an  armchair. 

"  So  that's  what  you  came  to  tell  me.  ...  I 
think  I've  heard  of  Felgate." 

She  listened  to  her  thin  voice,  and  to  that  other 
voice  which  shrieked  at  her,  "  What's  the  matter 
with  me?  Why  do  I  care  whether  he  goes  or 
not?  .  .  .  When  is  he  going?  .  .  .  Why  is  he  so 
stiff  ?  .  .  .  Why  do  I  mind  ?  .  .  . 


LEONARD  HYDE  193 

Under  the  veils  of  pride,  goodness,  common- 
sense,  and  strength  of  will,  the  answer  was  stir- 
ring, was  agonizedly  beginning  to  form,  was 
striving  to  become  audible. 

She  fastened  her  eyes  on  him.  "  It's  in  Surrey, 
isn't  it?  "  The  light  was  behind  him,  and  she  saw 
him  only  as  a  black  bar. 

"  Yes,  on  the  Thames.  I'm  buying  the  business 
there.  I  shall  stay  at  a  cottage  near  the  woods. 
.  .  .  Awfully  pretty.  My  people  are  traveling, 
you  see;  I  only  waited  for  the  wedding — so  I  shall 
be  on  my  own.  I've  thought  about  it  for  some- 
time, but — didn't  mention  it — I.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  trailed  away. 

"  I  see,"  Celia  said  quietly. 

Her  lips  were  dry,  her  eyes  smarting;  she 
shivered  so  violently  that  her  teeth  chattered. 
With  a  rigid  intensity  and  calm  her  eyes  observed 
his  hair,  his  shadowy  face,  his  hands  fingering  the 
edges  of  his  coat.  Like  lightning  the  answer  to 
all  her  unrests  and  apprehensions  and  sickening 
discontents,  rayed  through  her,  tearing  her,  blind- 
ing her.  She  loved  him.  She,  Celia  Jennings, 
Robert's  wife,  father's  daughter — she,  sane,  prac- 


194  TEN  HOURS 

tical,  unsentimental,  loved  a  man  for  the  first  time ; 
not  with  the  indulgent  sensible  affection  she  had 
felt  for  Robert,  but  in  a  way  which  was  shaming 
and  hideous. 

Her  eyelids  dropped.  For  a  moment  she  was 
shut  in  darkness,  enduring  torments  of  shame  and 
misery.  Then  all  those  old  established  rules,  con- 
ventions, standpoints  came  to  her  support.  She 
was  beset  by  trembling  but  powerful  urgencies; 
bidden  to  conceal  everything,  assisted  to  repres- 
sion and  composure. 

Her  limbs  relaxed.  She  looked  up  again,  her 
eyes  filmy  but  direct,  two  burning  spots  on  her 
white  cheeks,  but  her  voice  controlled,  her  body 
disciplined. 

"  It  will  be  very  nice  for  you.  It  sounds  lovely. 
When  will  you  be  going?" 

"  At  once.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
sooner,  but — I'm  going  down  there  to-night." 

Then  he  muttered  something  about  a  week's 
rent  and  a  cold  anger  filled  and  steeled  her.  She 
was  the  landlady;  some  one  who  let  a  room  to  get 
more  money;  his  people  were  traveling. 

Her  mouth  was  stern  and  lifted  in  the  old  aloof 


LEONARD  HYDE  195 

way.  At  her  heart  a  dull  pain  beat  but  it  was 
quiescent;  she  was  mistress  of  it;  her  thoughts, 
her  movements,  were  all  under  control.  She 
spoke  sharply. 

"  Not  at  all.  You  can  tell  me  when  you  choose. 
It  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  should«think  you 
must  be  glad  to  get  away  from  London.  A  cot- 
tage near  a  wood,  did  you  say?  That  sounds 
lovely." 

"  Yes." 

Leonard  was  too  occupied  with  rending  convic- 
tions to  be  able  to  speak.  He  had  observed  all  her 
movements  and  shades  of  expression.  At  every 
quiver  of  eyelid  or  mouth,  he  had  guessed  the 
emotion  which  provoked  it.  Having  once  grasped 
the  fact  that  there  existed  another  Celia  than  that 
capable  and  friendly  one,  he  read  correctly  the 
subtle  language  in  which  that  other  Celia  be- 
trayed herself.  He  was  convinced  that  she  loved 
him. 

His  thoughts  flew  from  point  to  point,  seeking 
further  knowledge,  seeking  wisdom,  pointing  out 
abysses,  and  escapes,  mad  joys,  and  bitter  penal- 
ties. He  thought  of  Robert,  stodgy  and  ugly;  of 


196  TEN  HOURS 

course  she  could  not  love  him.  He  thought  of 
himself,  and  those  distrusts  flocked  round  him. 
He  looked  suspiciously  at  her,  only  to  be  touched 
again  with  flame.  He  adored  her — and  she  loved 
him.  Beautiful,  good,  reserved,  and  at  heart  pas- 
sionate— what  a  woman!  He  wanted  her;  he 
must  have  her. 

He  made  a  step  nearer  her,  and  was  arrested 
by  that  cold  caution  and  dread.  It  wouldn't  last. 
It  was  fine  now — preeminent — but  it  wouldn't 
last.  He  had  been  like  this  with  Eugenie,  and 
possession.  ...  It  wouldn't  last.  Was  he  to 
throw  everything  overboard;  be  the  co-respondent 
in  a  divorce  suit;  ruin  his  career,  and  then  find  that 
the  fire  had  burnt  out,  that  he  must  offer  marriage 
to  a  woman  whom  he  had  ceased  to  love? 
"  Don't  for  heaven's  sake,  make  a  fool  of 
yourself!"  , 

A  minute's  silence  was  long  enough  for  him  to 
toss  between  these  extremities.  During  it  Celia, 
too,  had  been  racked  with  fresh  sensations  and 
convictions.  That  dull  pain  was  spreading  over 
her  limbs  and  numbing  them.  Now  that  she  had 
broken  through  the  uream,  and  the  mist,  and  come 


LEONARD  HYDE  197 

out  into  her  everyday  surroundings,  the  change  in 
her  was  more  poignantly  understood.  She  was  in 
her  own  room,  seeing  every  material  object  clearly, 
smelling  the  fire,  hearing  the  wind,  and  father's 
movements,  and  the  whispering  trees,  but  placed 
among  them  all  as  a  different  person;  conscious  of 
a  knowledge  which  altered  everything  she  looked 
on,  making  its  familiarity  unbearable.  The  room, 
the  house,  the  earth,  were  all  the  same  but  she 
had  changed,  and  things  which  had  been  endurable 
to  the  first  Celia  were  as  so  many  weapons  turned 
against  this  new  woman. 

When  she  had  absorbed  the  poison  of  this 
knowledge,  she  glanced  at  Leonard  and  saw  his 
agitation.  Her  mind  swerved  from  herself  to 
him,  and  as  she  watched  him,  painfully  endeavor- 
ing to  explain  his  aspect,  he  made  that  step  to- 
wards her.  Her  heart  leapt,  her  head  swam. 

Then  he  stopped,  and  she  was  precipitated  from 
a  height  of  fear  back  into  the  quiet  room.  She 
had  thought  he  was  about  to  touch  her  and  she 
did  not  know  whether  it  was  desire  or  dread  which 
had  brought  that  faintness  upon  her.  Now,  with- 
out attempting  to  analyze  her  emotions,  she 


198  TEN  HOURS 

gripped  the  problem  of  those  impulses  which  had 
driven  him  towards  her  and  then  stopped  him. 
Why?  Why? 

From  sheer  exhaustion  her  brain  became 
stationary. 

Dully  she  spoke.  "  Riverside  too?  You'll  be 
able  to  have  plenty  of  boating.  I  should  think  you 
must  be  looking  forward  to  a  good  time." 

Leonard  answered  as  lifelessly.  "  Yes,  of 
course.  It's  a  ripping  little  place;  still — I  shall  be 
sorry  to  leave  here  for  some  reasons.  .  .  .  I've 
been  very.  .  .  ."  Caution  prodded  him  warn- 
ingly.  "  Comfortable,"  he  concluded. 

"  That's  good,"  Celia  said  in  a  dry  little  voice, 
and  with  the  palest  of  smiles.  "  But  you'll  be 
more  than  comfortable  now.  That's  a  very  tame 
condition  after  all,  isn't  it?" 

She  scarcely  heeded  his  assent.  Her  mind 
might  be  motionless  through  fatigue,  but  her  body 
was  alert,  and  piteously  it  craved  for  explanation 
of  his  constraint.  Her  flesh  yearned  towards  him 
though  she  maintained  her  repressed  attitude 
and  endured  with  horror  those  uncontrollable 
demands. 


LEONARD  HYDE  199 

"  Yes,  tame.  I  suppose  so.  But  tame  things 
are  the  safest.  I  don't  know  whether  I  want  any- 
thing wild.  It's — shattering.  You'd  have  to  be 
so  certain  it  was  worth  it." 

Then  he  looked  at  her  and  his  selfishness  crum- 
bled. She  was  like  a  white  flame,  sitting  there  in 
the  light.  Worth  it!  His  miserable  little 
safeguards! 

His  face  kindled;  his  eyes  folded  her  in 
passion. 

"  But  if  you  knew  it  was  worth  it  you  wouldn't 
care;  you'd  let  everything  go,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  don't  think  of  safety  and  comfort  when 
you're  in.  .  .  ." 

Her  expression  stopped  him.  He  crimsoned, 
and  turned  to  the  fire.  His  hand  rose  to  his  full 
upper  lip  and  smoothed  it  shakily.  He  was  with- 
out thought. 

Celia  looked  straight  before  her.  She  under- 
stood that  he  loved  her  and  she  was  stupefied. 
She  saw  the  black  window-frame,  and  beyond  it 
the  ridged  glows  of  the  west.  Roofs  were  sun- 
gilt,  slates  struck  with  shadow;  smokes,  blue,  and 
white,  and  gray,  strove  lightly  over  them.  Her 


200  TEN  HOURS 

eyes    dilated.      Her   brain    hammered    out    mo- 
notonously, "  He  loves  you." 

Robert,  his  long  heavy  face,  his  kind  blue  eyes, 
his  stout  body:  she  wanted  Robert.  She  wanted 
him  because  he  symbolized  safety,  protection,  and 
sanity.  .  .  .  Then  she  knew  that  if  he  came  into 
the  room  she  would  scream,  she  would  shrink 
from  his  touch,  detesting  him. 

Gwennie  was  upstairs.  In  the  garden  father 
was  contentedly  piling  up  dead  leaves.  All  the 
other  rooms  were  empty  and  silent.  And  she  sat 
here,  in  the  morning-room  knowing  that  a  man 
loved  her  and  she  loved  him. 

She  trembled  again.  Her  terrified  gaze  stole 
round  the  room,  seeking  for  that  old  security,  that 
proved  repose,  that  absorption  in  trivialities.  If 
only  she  could  get  back  to  the  Celia  of  twenty 
minutes  ago!  If  only  this  were  a  dream,  and  she 
could  awake,  concentrated  tranquilly  on  her  cro- 
chet and  on  father,  bearing  no  worse  pain  than 
that  of  a  decayed  tooth ! 

A  sob  rose  in  her  heart.  She  stared  at  the  table 
with  its  faded  blue  cloth,  at  the  blue  walls,  at  the 
prints  of  MacWhirter  and  Kate  Greenaway,  and 


LEONARD  HYDE  201 

Watts,  at  Robert's  books,  at  her  workbox,  and 
tried  to  associate  herself  with  them,  to  draw  them 
about  her  as  so  many  atmospheres  which  would 
pervade  her  with  the  sense  of  home  and  wifehood. 
But  they  failed  her.  They  were  not  allies,  but 
enemies,  critics.  No,  they  were  not  even  that; 
they  were  virtually  non-existent;  not  one  of  them 
meant  anything  to  her.  She  could  conjure  up  no 
sanity,  no  normal  calmness  with  them,  nor  with  the 
names  of  father  and  Gwennie.  Insubstantial  and 
irrelevant  as  shadows  they  lay  about  her.  Only 
one  thing  counted,  was  solid,  real,  mastering,  and 
that  was  Leonard.  He  loved  her. 

Keen  shoots  of  realization  went  through  her. 
He  loved  her.  She  savored  the  implication  of  the 
words:  he  wanted  to  kiss  and  caress  her. 

She  was  shaken  with  a  savage  desire  for  his 
lips  and  his  arms.  She  was  sick  with  horror  and 
eagerness.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her — he  whom  she 
had  thought  of  with  such  timidity  and  awe.  He 
loved  her.  That  she  was  married  made  no  differ- 
ence to  him.  He  thought  her  perfect — and  he  so 
perfect  himself !  He  did  not  want  to  go  to  Fel- 
gate.  .  .  .  He  was  going  because  he  was  noble. 


202  TEN  HOURS 

.  .  .  All  romance,  all  wonder,  all  miracles,  were 

hers.     She  was  glorified  beyond  measure. 

Her  thoughts  raced  on.  Waves  of  heat  rose 
and  fell  over  her  body.  Waves  of  torturing 
shame  succeeded  them. 

She  moved  her  damp  hands  outward.  She  tried 
to  stand  up  but  languor  seized  her.  She  tried  to 
speak  but  her  dry  lips  only  twitched.  She  sat  mo* 
tionless,  rocking  from  great  breadths  of  light  to 
waters  of  darkness;  swept  by  happiness — seared 
with  shame. 

Leonard  looked  at  her.  For  a  moment  he  re- 
sisted, dealing  with  conflicting  emotions.  Then  he 
dropped  down  on  his  knees  beside  the  chair,  and 
put  passionate  and  timid  arms  about  her. 

"  Celia.  .  .  .  Celia.  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  her  lips  and  her  cheeks,  softly  but 
with  burning  ardor. 

Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating,  and  then 
thundered  on.  She  tried  to  grasp  supports  which 
she  could  neither  see  nor  name,  which  her  sub- 
conscious self  said  existed,  but  which  were  less 
than  bubbles  to  her.  Her  instinct  groped  wildly 
for  them. 


LEONARD  HYDE  203 

Then  all  calls  to  resistance  ceased,  one  sur- 
rendered herself  to  this  sweetness.  Her  arms 
lifted  and  clasped  him;  she  moved  her  head  so  that 
her  cheek  pressed  his ;  she  was  fainting  with  a  pro- 
found happiness. 


CHAPTER  XI 
LOVE 

LEONARD  held  her  closely,  kissing  her,  and  mur- 
muring unmeaning  words  in  her  ear.  He  was 
without  doubts,  and  without  regrets.  Love  com- 
manded him  and  his  happiness  was  flawless.  He 
felt  her  breast  against  him,  her  cheek  moving  on 
his,  caressing  it,  and  her  hair  fluffing  into  his  eyes. 
Exultation  made  him  dizzy;  desire  turned  his  em- 
brace rough. 

His  tightening  clasp  roused  Celia  from  her  half 
swoon.  That  moment  of  abandon  with  its  free- 
dom from  thought  and  its  supreme  simplicity  was 
gone.  Now  only  its  significance  remained.  All 
its  stern  meanings  and  issues  were  before  her. 
The  old  Celia,  though  she  could  not  be  detached 
from  the  new  Celia,  but  must  bear  all  the  torments 
and  joys  of  the  latter,  could  nevertheless  govern 
the  latter,  read  lier  clearly,  and  trace  the  strength 
and  perils  of  her  impulses.  Her  mind  too  could 
be  neutral,  swerving  from  the  old  to  the  new  with 
204 


LOVE  205 

stunning  swiftness,  seeing  things  from  cither's 
standpoint  and  all  the  time  sustaining  a  fierce 
argument. 

Now  the  old  Celia  rose  to  the  surface.  She 
twisted  in  Leonard's  arms,  thrust  him  away,  and 
lifted  her  hands  to  her  hair.  Horror  and  anger 
gave  her  a  superficial  composure.  All  her  in- 
stincts, flaming  into  activity,  advised  dissimulation. 
She  was  not  angry  with  him,  but  she  must  seem  to 
be  so.  She  had  betrayed  her  love;  now  she  must 
strenuously  deny  it.  She  had  been  drawn  to  a 
height  of  unprecedented  happiness,  and  this  was 
criminal;  contemplation  of  her  weakness  filled  her 
with  repulsion  for  herself.  How  could  she  have 
been  so  mad,  so  wicked? 

Then  her  brain  froze.  It  was  no  longer  ca- 
pable of  analyzing  the  situation,  but  her  physical 
strength  was  returning,  and  she  was  thankful  for 
the  cessation  of  thought.  Action  now,  not  feeling, 
had  become  necessary  and  she  knew  how  she 
must  act. 

She  forced  her  eyes  to  his,  hardening  them,  and 
setting  her  mouth.  She  tried  to  speak  but  that  for 
the  moment  was  impossible. 


206  TEN  HOURS 

Leonard  understood  her,  but  as  he  had  expected 
pride  and  rebuke,  he  was  not  troubled  by  them. 
Resistance,  spirit — she  would  show  them  both. 
Every  new  phase  of  the  position  found  her  splen- 
did. He  was  made  all  the  more  ardent  by  her 
coldness. 

He  pressed  near  her.  "  Celia,  I  love  you.  Do 
you  know?  And  you — love  me.  .  .  .  Celia.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  touch  me."  Her  voice  was  sharp,  it 
was  almost  a  cry.  Her  brows,  her  mouth,  con- 
tracted with  dread.  "  Don't — you  ought  not. 
.  .  .  You  are  behaving  shamefully." 

Knowledge  of  the  right  actions  was  easily  at- 
tained, but  here  her  power  to  execute  the  demands 
of  the  crisis  ended.  She  saw  every  part  of  the 
situation,  and  every  separate  danger,  and  the 
weapon  which  would  destroy  that  danger,  but  she 
could  not  composedly  use  the  advantages  given  by 
her  insight.  As  she  recognized  this,  her  sense  of 
her  peril  and  of  her  inadequacy  to  meet  it  flooded 
her  with  fear.  She  sprang  up,  obeying  her  instinct 
since  its  demands  seemed  simpler  than  those  of 
her  intelligence. 

"  You  mustn't  come  near  me.     I   don't  know 


LOVE  207 

what  made  me — I'm  hysterical  to-day.  I've  had 
toothache,  and  I've  been  silly — and  you  frightened 
me.  .  .  .  You're  to  forget — everything." 

She  panted  out  the  sentences,  standing,  looking, 
not  like  a  woman  but  like  a  schoolgirl.  Her  mind 
shrieked  its  scorn  at  her;  it  stabbed  her  with  those 
suitable  speeches  and  attitudes:  dignity,  impas- 
sivity, quiet  rebuke.  Her  depths  were  full  of 
activity;  they  rushed  to  examine  and  subdue  this 
horror,  which  was  also  a  glory,  but  her  surfaces 
were  paralyzed,  no,  worse  still,  they  were  full  of 
weak  and  pitiable  movements — straws  put  up  to 
oppose  a  torrent. 

"  I  know  you  didn't  mean  to — to  say — any- 
thing like  that,"  she  went  on.  "  We've  both  been 
very  silly.  ...  I  wish — please — if  you'd  go." 

Then  she  stopped,  quietly  abandoning  the  at- 
tempt to  face  the  affair.  His  steady  passionate 
gaze  made  her  flinch;  she  drooped  under  it  as 
under  a  burning  sun.  That  horrible  joy  struggled 
in  her,  beating  down  her  hitherto  untried  resources 
of  strength,  which,  now  that  they  were  called  into 
service,  betrayed  their  slightness.  She  stood,  pas- 
sively enduring  her  sensations,  without  thought, 


208  TEN  HOURS 

but  quivering  with  every  flick  of   her   feelings. 

Leonard's  emotions  were  all  exultant  He 
respected  her  for  her  abasement  and  loved  her  the 
more,  but  it  did  not  deter  him  in  his  pursuit.  Now 
that  he  had  broken  through  his  restraints,  nothing 
was  powerful  enough  to  stop  him.  He  had  one 
object  only — that  of  winning  her.  The  obstacles 
she  threw  up  were  not  deterrents  but  spurs;  they 
goaded  him  to  a  hotter  desire.  Still  egotistical  as 
he  was,  his  egotism  had  taken  the  form  now  not 
of  self-preservation  but  of  self-indulgence.  He 
wanted  her,  and  he  must  have  her.  Almost  he 
said  that  he  could  have  her.  Of  her  powers  of 
resistance  he  was  not  yet  certain;  he  suspected 
their  strength  to  be  less  than  that  of  her  natural 
desires,  but  he  had  not  proved  this.  He  set  him- 
self to  do  so. 

"  I  haven't  been  very  silly,  Celia.  I'm  in  deadly 
earnest.  I've  loved  you  for  a  long  time,  only  I 
didn't  think  there  was  any  chance.  Darling,  if 
you  love  me-,  there's  nothing  silly  in  it.  It's  all- 
great.  I  can't  believe  it." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  suffering  made 
vacant  and  peculiarly  unseeing.  "  You  mustn't 


LOVE  209 

talk  like  this.  I  didn't  think  you  would  be  so — so 
wrong,  and  cruel.  I've  asked  you  to  go." 

He  was  momentarily  restrained  by  her  subdued 
voice  and  manner.  That  spirituality  he  had  ad- 
mired in  her  was  very  manifest  now.  In  her  slen- 
derness  and  pallor  she  looked  virginal.  He  forgot 
that  she  was  a  wife;  aware  of  the  acts  of  passion, 
and  experienced  in  them.  He  saw  her  as  a  girl 
confronted  for  the  first  time  with  the  problems  of 
sex,  and  scared  into  frozen  reserve.  This  he 
would  soon  destroy.  He  put  out  his  hands  and 
laid  them  on  her  arms,  but  her  convulsive  start, 
her  glance  of  terror  and  reproach,  checked  him, 
and  he  let  them  fall  again  to  his  sides.  He  was 
baffled  and  mystified;  unable  to  harmonize  her 
abandon  of  a  few  minutes  ago  with  this  repulsion. 
He  began  to  feel  less  sure  of  his  perceptions. 
Was  she  really  angry,  really  pained,  and  outraged? 

Trouble  clouded  his  eyes;  he  spoke  uncertainly. 

"  Are  you  really  angry?  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  mind  my  loving  you.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me,  Celia.  I  can't  help  loving  you.  I  don't  under- 
stand you.  I  thought  at  first  that  you  .  .  .  that 
you  cared — and  now.  .  .  ." 


210  TEN  HOURS 

He  stopped.  He  clasped  and  unclasped  his 
hands,  an  almost  childishly  distressed  expression 
lining  his  face. 

Celia  drank  in  the  sweetness  of  his  expressions 
of  love.  Her  body  expanded,  and  seemed  again 
to  crave  out  towards  him.  Hurriedly  her  eyes 
went  to  his  face  and  she  was  pierced  again  with 
the.  knowledge  of  his  dearness. 

Her  youthful  judgment,  which,  dazzled  by  a 
few  features,  had  constructed  others,  and  out  of 
the  real  and  the  fancied,  built  up  a  godlike  char- 
acter, found  him  irresistibly  appealing.  His  good 
looks  were  to  her  the  outward  manifestation  of  an 
ideal  nature.  His  refinement,  his  naivete,  his  can- 
did eyes,  his  obvious  poses  and  subterfuges — she 
loved  them  all.  There  was  a  grace  and  youthful- 
ness  about  him  which  Robert  would  never  possess. 
He  harmonized  admirably*with  the  ardent  atmo- 
sphere he  had  created;  Robert  would  have  ap- 
peared ridiculous  in  it.  All  her  longing  for 
protection;  and  love,  and  caresses;  all  her  only 
half-recognized  desires  for  the  glamor  and  rush  of 
an  unreasoning  worship,  found  their  answer  in 
him.  Those  dreams  which  had  stirred  in  the  deep 


LOVE  211 

silences  and  dusks  of  the  countryside,  which  had 
breathed  of  a  world  where  service  and  ecstasy 
were  synonymous,  where  love  was  never  staled, 
but  everyday  things  were  transmuted  by  its  per- 
renial  freshness;  those  romantic  imaginings,  were 
all  justified  when  she  looked  at  him.  Such  things 
could  be;  such  love  could  be.  She  had  known  she 
could  not  find  them  with  Robert;  only  placid  and 
humdrum  partnership  was  possible  there.  Just  as 
confidently  had  she  met  Leonard  first  she  would 
have  known  that  she  could  find  them  in  him.  But 
she  had  married  Robert.  Stings  and  jars  had 
prodded  up  through  the  placidity,  and  now  the  real 
love  was  at  hand,  was  offered,  and  she  returned  it, 
and  by  so  doing,  she  sinned. 

Trembling  she  moved  away  from  him.  The 
room  seemed  to  tilt  towards  her,  reproaching  her, 
reminding  her  of  her  wifehood.  She  saw  Rob- 
ert's face  with  numbing  vividness,  but  it  was  with- 
out reality;  it  was  a  phantasm  which  she  ques- 
tioned stupidly,  "What  was  it  to  her?"  What 
was  anything  beside  the  dearness  of  Leonard's 
face,  beside  his  trouble,  and  his  unhappiness? 

Over  her  limbs  spread  a  dreadful  heaviness; 


212  TEN  HOURS 

her  head  throbbed.  Through  the  half-open  door 
which  she  was  nearing  stole  the  dry  chill  air  of 
the  house.  Beyond  the  door  were  walls  of  silence 
and  brown  shadow,  and  she  longed  for  them; 
every  part  of  her  sick  body  and  mind  urged  her  to 
escape  from  this  merciless  light  into  a  darkness 
and  coldness  away  from  Leonard.  If  she  could 
escape  from  him,  touch  bannisters  and  door-knobs, 
see  the  white  counterpane  of  her  bed  and  Robert's, 
hear  Gwennie  moving  overhead,  lie  down  under 
the  familiar  white  ceiling  and  amid  the  familiar 
furniture — then  the  old  Celia  might  root  out  these 
unspeakable  emotions,  and,  like  a  pendulum, 
swing  back  to  that  blessed  state  of  common-sense 
from  which  this  emotion  would  seem  degrading 
and  absurd. 

Steadily  she  moved  backward,  the  pallid  flame 
of  the  daylight  before  her,  and  behind  her  the 
thin  wall,  dimness,  and  silence. 

Then  Leonard  moved  too.  If  she  once  passed 
that  door  she  was  lost  to  him.  The  house  would 
seize  her.  With  a  thousand  tentacles  it  would 
fasten  itself  into  her.  Memories,  habits,  duties, 
familiarities,  all  these,  crowding  her  heart,  would 


LOVE  213 

be  stronger  than  passion  because  they  were  known, 
whereas  passion  was  new  and  as  much  terrifying 
as  sweet. 

With  a  stride  he  cleared  the  space  between 
them.  His  sensitive  face  was  marked  by  alarm,  it 
was  made  shapeless  and  twitching  by  it.  "  Celia, 
darling  .  .  .  don't  go.  It's  not  right  to  let  me 
think  you  love  me,  and  then  turn  me  down.  You 
do  love  me.  .  .  .  It's  you  who  are  treating  me 
badly.  I  love  you.  ...  I  shall  go  mad  if  you 
look  at  me  like  that.  You  must  hear  me  out." 

Her  heart  bounded  at  each  sentence,  unques- 
tioningly  accepting  its  truth.  Love  tore  her.  Too 
large  for  her  body,  it  swelled  tormentingly  through 
her.  She  looked  at  his  entreating  face,  and  at  his 
hands  stretched  towards  her  but  refraining  from 
contact.  Currents  of  attraction  linked  her  to  him. 

They  conquered.  All  those  impulses  of  re- 
sistance dropped  from  her,  and  her  mind  was 
silenced  like  a  machine  stopped  by  a  hand.  He 
found  confederates  in  her  blood,  in  her  pulses,  in 
her  breath.  Her  mouth  arched  in  hopeless  protest 
but  her  eyes  were  kindling;  above  them  her  brows 
smoothed  out  almost  joyously. 


2i4  TEN  HOURS 

He  put  his  arms  round  her  and  pressed  her 
against  him,  kissing  her  gently. 

II 

She  was  now  governed  entirely  by  the  dictates 
of  her  body.  The  call  of  the  house  was  to  her 
mind,  and  this  made  no  response.  She  allowed 
him  to  draw  her  back  to  her  chair,  and  force  her 
into  it.  Then  he  knelt  by  her,  still  holding  her, 
and  she  sat  passive,  her  eyes  dwelling  on  him. 

He  began  his  attack,  his  whole  attitude  one  of 
humility,  adoration,  and  solicitude. 

u  I  didn't  come  down  meaning  to  tell  you, 
darling.  I've  loved  you  ever  since  I  saw  you,  1 
think.  .  .  .  But  I  haven't  thought  about  trying  to 
make  you  love  me.  I  haven't  tried,  have  I  ?  You 
must  have  done  it  on  your  own.  I  never  thought 
you  would;  it  didn't  occur  to  me.  At  first  it  was 
enough  to  see  you,  and  know  you  were  alive — any 
one  so  beautiful  and  good;  just  what  I  think  a 
woman  ought  to  be.  I've  met  a  good  many;  there's 
not  much  I  don't  know  about  'em.  I  have  hun- 
dreds of  girls  making  eyes  at  me  and  doing  all 
their  silly  little  things — as  if  I  couldn't  see  through 


LOVE  215 

them !  I  wasn't  to  be  caught  that  way.  And  when 
I  saw  you,  I  knew  you  were  different;  so  natural, 
and  sweet,  and  sensible.  I  don't  like  a  woman 
who  thinks  every  fellow  who  looks  at  her  is  in  love 
with  her.  They  do  think  that,  you  know;  some 
of  them, — most  of  them, — but  you  don't.  You 
look  as  if  you  think  a  fellow  can  be  platonically 
interested  in  a  woman.  I  don't  say  he  can.  I've 
proved  he  can't,  in  fact,  because  I  thought  I 
loved  you  platonically  at  first,  and  I  don't.  I 
adore  you,  and  I'm  not  going  to  stop  there. 
I  must  have  something  more,  Celia.  And  I  felt 
that  the  last  few  weeks,  and  I  didn't  know  you 
thought  anything  about  me,  so  I  determined 
to  clear  out.  But  everything's  different  now; 
you  love  me,  and  it  alters  my  course.  All 
my  plans  come  to  nothing,  because  you  weren't  in 
them.  Now  I — we — must  make  others,  with  you 
in  the  center.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go,  dear. 
We  must  make  other  plans — make  them  now." 

He  paused  breathlessly,  beaming  on  her  with 
eyes  which  saw  no  obstacles,  no  moral  laws,  noth- 
ing but  the  consummation  of  desire. 

She  had  missed  his  first  sentences.     Stunned  by 


216  TEN  HOURS 

the  impact  of  events,  she  could  only  look  at  him 
without  thought,  without  movement.  Gradually, 
however,  her  brain  threw  off  its  lethargy,  and  re- 
ceived his  words,  considering  them,  and  making 
pictures  out  of  them.  His  embrace,  and  her 
absorption  in  him  and  in  his  words  were  helping 
her  to  dissociate  hersfelf  from  her  surroundings, 
were  obliterating  knowledge  of  bonds  and  respon- 
sibilities. She  felt  herself  to  be  independent,  the 
mistress  of  her  own  actions,  and  in  this  state  all 
instincts  urged  her  to  link  herself  to  him.  She  was 
almost  coming  to  feel  that  her  duty  now  lay  in 
pondering  these  new  circumstances,  and  discover- 
ing their  legitimate  demands. 

Encouraged  by  her  intent  look  and  her  repose 
in  his  arms,  Leonard  plunged  on  again. 

"  We  must  make  plans.  Good  Lord,  when  I 
think  I  came  down  to-day  to  say  good-by  and 
clear  out  for  ever!  If  I  hadn't  spoken,  and  had 
gone  away  not  knowing  you  cared !  What  a  bit 
of  good  luck  it's  all  been !  You've  always  seemed 
so  wonderful  to  me — -the  kind  of  woman  I've 
always  been  looking  for." 


LOVE  217 

Her  brain  seized  on  that  and  cast  it  into  a 
picture. 

She  had  a  vision  of  his  life  as  her  lodger.  She 
saw  the  staircase  and,  looking  on  her  own  face  and 
figure  through  his  eyes,  saw  how  she  must  have 
appeared  to  him  as  she  stood  in  the  silvery  shadow 
of  the  landing.  The  woman  he  had  always  been 
looking  for!  Warmth  flushed  her. 

"  And  now  I've  got  you.  I  know  you  love  me 
though  you  haven't  said  so.  Celia,  say  you  do. 
Do  say  you  love  me,  Celia.  I'm  mad  to  hear  you 
say  that." 

The  mere  thought  of  formulating  her  illicit 
desires  in  words  jerked  her  back  towards  realiza- 
tion of  the  horror  of  her  position.  He  saw  her 
returning  misery  and  rushed  in,  sweeping  her  back 
into  forgetfulness  of  all  but  love. 

"  Darling,  we  must  make  plans.  I'm  going 
down  to  Felgate,  and  as  I  told  you  I  want  to 
open  a  business  there.  I've  taken  a  room  in  a  cot- 
tage near  the  woods.  It's  the  most  glorious  place. 
You'll  love  it,  Celia.  It'll  drive  you  wild.  It's 
all  pines — and  then  there's  the  river." 


218  TEN  HOURS 

He  poured  out  descriptions,  but  her  mind 
busied  itself  with  the  cottage  before  it  attended 
to  these. 

She  built  the  white  walls,  the  slanting  roof,  the 
little  windows  lost  amid  creepers,  and  behind  it 
she  piled  the  dark  rustling  masses  of  the  wood, 
shaped  the  long  boles  and  cast  the  mist  of  gray- 
green  crests  under  the  stars.  .  .  .  He  was  going 
there. 

What  was  he  saying  now?  He  was  describing 
the  environment  of  the  cottage,  speaking  of 
the  Thames. 

"You  like  the  river,  don't  you,  dearest?  It's 
awfully  pretty  round  there — meadows,  you  know 
— and  then  there  are  the  shops,  and  fields  and 
copses  before  you  come  to  the  cottages,  and  then 
the  pines  on  St.  Mary's  Hill.  After  this  little 
hole  !  Celia,  shan't  we  be  happy  there  ?  " 

He  pressed  her  furiously  against  him  but  he  did 
not,  as  he  had  hoped,  intoxicate  her.  That  "  we  " 
had  stabbed  through  her  dreaming  and  rent  it. 
Her  physical  side  no  longer  governed  her.  She 
was  awake  again  to  all  perils  and  laws  and  in- 
exorable sequels.  "  We."  He  took  her  consent 


LOVE  219 

for  granted.  He  imagined  that  she  would  go  with 
him,  that  she  would  leave  Robert,  father,  Gwen- 
nie — that  she  would  break  her  marriage  vows. 

Half  of  her  moaned  with  abhorrence,  half  of 
her  was  shaken  by  a  storm  of  excitement  as  the 
alternatives  towered  up  before  her.  She  had  as 
yet  scarcely  realized  her  freedom.  She  could  go. 
She  was  bound,  not  by  material  chains  but  by 
spiritual.  She  could  break  these,  and  go. 

Sub-consciously  she  said  these  things;  her  con- 
scious self  revolted  from  his  words. 

She  seized  his  hands  and  threw  them  off  her. 
She  stood  up. 

"  Mr.  Hyde,  you  must  go — at  once.  You've  no 
right  to  say  such  things  to  me,  and  1  mustn't  listen. 
It's  wicked — and  it's  mad — and  ridiculous.  You 
only  fancy  you're  in  love  with  me." 

"  You  know  that  isn't  true,  Celia.  And  why  do 
you  say  Mr.  Hyde  ?  You  know  you  love  me.  Say 
Leonard.  You  know  it's  not  ridiculous." 

He  came  towards  her,  his  bright  eyes  subduing 
her. 

"  It  is  ridiculous,"  she  repeated  tartly,  whipping 
herself  into  anger  with  him.  u  If  I  hadn't  been 


220  TEN  HOURS 

silly  all  day  I  should  never  have  listened  to  you 
like  this.  I'm  hysterical." 

"  No,  you're  not  You're  deceiving  yourself 
and  trying  to  deceive  me,  but  you  can't.  We  both 
know  the  truth.  We  love  each  other,  and  there's 
nothing  ridiculous  about  it.  It's  no  good  taking 
that  line,  you  can't  keep  it  up." 

Her  eyes  wavered  before  his  honest  earnest 
gaze.  That  look  of  youth  and  helplessness  settled 
down  upon  her  again. 

"  Celia,  darling,  admit  that  you  love  me,  and 
then  go  on  with  what  you  want  to  say,  but  be 
honest." 

He  clasped  her  wrists  and  bent  over  her. 

Her  knees  trembled.  Once  more  she  stood  in 
momentary  brightness  as  she  tasted  the  sweetness 
of  his  proximity  and  his  passion,  but  advancing  on 
her  with  all  those  dark  shapes — shame,  moral 
laws,  pride,  purity. 

"  Oh,  don't  —  don't.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do  love 
you.  .  .  .  Leonard.  .  .  .  Let  me  go.  .  .  . 
Please." 

He  stepped  away  from  her.  "  I  must  hear 
what  you  have  to  say  first.  I  won't  touch  you — 


LOVE  221 

I'll  try  not  to,  anyway.  You  say  you  love  me, 
and  yet  you're  sending  me  away.  Why?"  Her 
face  flamed.  She  became  lovably  embarrassed 
and  petulant. 

"How  can  you  ask  anything  so  silly?"  The 
ghost  of  the  sensible  Celia  appeared  and  clinched 
the  matter  with  that  involuntary  tilt  of  the  head, 
that  compression  of  the  mouth.  "  Because  I'm 
married,  of  course.  That's  why." 

She  tried  to  look  matronly  and  dignified,  but 
the  significance  of  her  answer  crushed  her  with 
shame.  Her  head  drooped  till  he  could  see  only 
her  white  parting  and  the  glinting  waves  of  her 
hair  springing  away  from  it. 

"  Oh  Celia,  you  are  an  angel,  but.  .  .  .  You 
don't  love  your  husband,  and  you  do  love  me. 
Celia.  .  .  ." 

He  approached  her  and  again  caressed  her. 

"  Celia,  you'll  make  us  all  miserable  for  the 
sake  of  prejudice,  for  silly  forms  which  aren't 
recognized  now  like  they  used  to  be.  Marriage 
wants  reforming.  You  owe  more  to  me  than  to 
him.  Dearest.  .  .  ." 

He  felt  that  words  were  not  trustworthy  allies ; 


222  TEN  HOURS 

he  felt,  despite  the  affair  with  Eugenie,  terribly 
inexperienced.  His  cheeks  burnt  at  the  thought  of 
the  crudities  he  might  utter.  He  was  on  fire  with 
desire  to  corrupt  her,  but  he  shrank  from  the  bald 
coarse  statement  of  his  aims.  He  was,  also, 
anxious  to  be  all  that  was  chivalrous  and  respect- 
ful, and  it  was  not  easy  to  harmonize  the  two 
things.  He  was  convinced  of  the  deep  roots  of  his 
love,  convinced  that  his  ideal  of  married  life  was 
to  be  fulfilled  despite  the  miry  paths  he  must  tra- 
verse before  he  secured  it.  He  had  found  the  one 
woman,  and  he  would  be  to  her  noble  and  pro- 
tective and  loving,  but  he  would  be  so  first  as  her 
lover  and  then  as  her  husband.  If  it  crossed  his 
mind  that  the  noblest  proof  of  his  love  lay  in 
crucifying  it,  he  speedily  dismissed  the  thought. 
He  was  bent  not  upon  renunciation  but  posses- 
sion. 

Distrusting  his  tongue,  then,  he  adopted  those 
easier  and  equally  insidious  weapons  of  caresses 
and  endearments;  feeling,  dimly,  that  he  would 
find  an  advocate  in  her  own  loving  emotions,  that 
these  would  supply  her  with  all  the  tempting  soph- 
istries of  speech  which  he  could  not  utter. 


LOVE  223 

Occasionally  he  murmured  fragmentary  sen- 
tences : 

"  It  would  be  a  crime  to  live  with  him,  loving 
me.  .  .  .  We  can  be  married  afterwards.  .  .  . 
Dear,  think  of  it;  right  away  from  this  smoky 
hole  .  .  .  begin  life.  .  .  .  Celia,  I  love  you  so 
much.  If  you  send  me  away,  I  shall  go  mad.  .  .  . 
There's  only  one  right  thing  to  do.  It's  making  a 
mockery  of  marriage  to  stop  with  him.  You  be- 
long to  me  now." 

Then  he  became  silent,  holding  her  closely. 

She  rested  against  him,  unresponsive,  and 
unrepelling. 

She  heard  his  words,  and  heard,  too,  the  more 
eloquent  language  of  his  heart  beating  against  her, 
of  his  hands  pressing  her.  Weariedly  her  brain 
worked,  delving  amid  a  chaos  of  thoughts  and 
laying  certain  of  them  bare  for  her  heavy 
inspection. 

She  loved  him  most  passionately,  and  that  was 
shame.  He  loved  her  and  was  urging  her  to  go 
with  him,  to  secure  a  new  life  away  from  this  acrid 
and  noisy  place;  a  life  full  of  romance  and  love 
and  happiness — Yes,  but  wrong,  utterly  wrong, 
and  to  be  gained  only  by  the  loss  of  everything 


224  TEN  HOURS 

that  was  right.  .  .  .  He  ought  not  to  urge  her. 

That  thought  was  stifled  at  once. 

She  lifted  cloudy  eyes  to  his.  Her  face  was 
haggard.  She  wondered  simply  why  she  could  not 
say  to  him  all  she  felt;  why  she  could  not  caress 
him,  and  explain  her  desire  to  give  him  what  he 
wanted,  and  the  instincts  which  deterred  her,  the 
invisible  and  hated  but  clinging  chains  which 
linked  her  to  the  house  and  all  that  it  represented. 
She  was  fettered  by  her  temperament.  Her  habit- 
ual impulse  to  conceal  deep  feeling  was  still  strong 
in  her.  She  was  sickened  when  she  thought  how 
much  she  had  already  shown.  She  longed  to 
extricate  herself  from  these  surging  emotions,  and 
be  able  to  attack  the  position  with  the  keen  weapon 
of  ridicule,  but  simultaneously  she  longed  for  free 
expression,  for  complete  surrender. 

Assailed  by  the  two  desires,  she  gazed  at  him 
tragically,  her  mouth  vivid  and  soft  amid  the  pale 
flatness  of  her  face,  her  eyes  brooding  and  singu- 
larly old  and  wise  as  they  pierced  the  future  and 
found  only  darkness  there. 

Leonard  turned  cold  with  fear  as  he  looked 
at  her. 


LOVE  225 

"  Celia,  for  Heaven's  sake — you're  not  going  to 
ruin  our  lives  for  the  sake  of  convention,  for  what 
seems  right  in  other  people's  eyes  but  isn't  right 
at  all?  You're  not  going  to  be  hypocritical?  It's 
the  right  thing  to  leave  him  and  come  to  me. 
Love's  the  only  thing  that  matters.  .  .  .  Celia, 
don't  look  like  that.  We  shall  be  so  happy;  we're 
so  young;  do  you  think  we  can  stand  giving  each 
other  up?  Think  of  it:  the  country — and  the 
whole  place  to  ourselves.  It's  all  so  easy  to  get. 
Come  with  me — now — this  afternoon.  I'm  going 
down  there  to-night.  Don't  make  me  the  most 
miserable  fellow  in  the  world;  make  me  the 
happiest." 

She  looked  beyond  him,  beyond  the  light-bathed 
suburb  into  a  world  evoked  by  his  words,  a  world 
soft  and  hushed  and  small,  nested  in  woods  near 
the  green  goodness  of  meadows  and  the  repose  of 
fields  and  lanes;  warm,  remote  from  bustle, 
illumined  by  the  steady  flame  of  love. 

She  panted  feverishly.  The  common  swung  up 
before  her  mental  gaze,  menacing  her  with  its 
gorse  clumps,  and  its  rimming  houses.  She  saw 
the  stark  garden  trees,  the  lawn  striped  with  sun- 


226  TEN  HOURS 

beams,  and  father  cutting  away  dead  strands  of 
jenny  creeper.  .  .  . 

She  was  cold,  exhausted,  trembling. 

She  moved  out  of  his  arms.  "  This  is  enough. 
We've  got  to  stop  now.  We've  got  to  be  firm 
and  sensible.  I'm  not  going  to  say  anything 
more  about  it.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  No 
— don't  say  anything,  Leonard.  It's  all  done 
with.  It's  got  to  be.  There's  no  other  way — 
none.  .  .  ." 

"  There  is,  there's  only  one  way  and  it's  not 
yours, — not  staying,  but  coming." 

"  No,  I  couldn't  do  that,  and  neither  could  you. 
You  ought  to  be  able  to  see  that.  We're  not  that 
kind  of  people.  We  shouldn't  be  happy;  if  we 
were  for  the  time  it  wouldn't  last,  I  know." 

In  this  moment  of  illumination  she  repeated 
more  strongly,  "  I  know  it  wouldn't  last,  and  we 
should  both  be  done  for.  .  .  .  You're  to  go  now. 
I  won't  have  anything  more  said  about  it." 

"I  won't  have  it  settled  like  this;  it  can't  be 
settled.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  when  two 
people  love  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Leonard,  you're  not  to  say  any  more.     I've 


LOVE  227 

listened  to  you  too  long.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
weak  any  longer.  ...  If  you  really  love  me  you 
won't  hurt  me,  you'll  do  what  I  ask  you  and  go. 
You'll  see  I'm  right.  It's  the  only  way." 

He  looked  at  her  steady  body,  her  inflexible 
mouth,  her  suffering  eyes. 

"  Celia,  don't,  Celia,  I  can't  stand  it.  I  want 
to  do  everything  you  want  me  to  do,  but  I  can't 
this,  not  this,  I'm  sure  you're  wrong.  .  .  . 

"  No,  I'm  right,  and  whether  I'm  right  or 
wrong,  it's  what  I'm  going  to  do.  After  all,  we 
know  we  love  each  other,  that's  something.  .  .  . 
That's  everything.  .  .  ." 

"  Not  for  me.  I  don't  call  it  love  when  you 
won't  give  up  anything.  Love's  giving  up  every- 
thing, caring  for  nothing." 

"  I'm  asking  you  to  give  up,  give  up  love  itself; 
that's  just  what  we  are  doing.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  not  what  I  mean." 

u  I  can't  help  it,  and  I'm  not  going  to  say  any- 
thing more.  You've  been  talking  about  ruining 
your  life,  and  this  would  do  it." 

"  Yes,  but  I  said  if  it  was  worth  it  I  shouldn't 
care  a  hang,  and  this  is  worth  it.  Do  you  think  I 


228  TEN  HOURS 

should  let  any  paltry  conventions — oh!  It's  un- 
bearable. You're  afraid  of  other  people,  you'll 
sacrifice  me  and  yourself  for.  .  .  ." 

Her  expression  stemmed  him.  He  became  si- 
lent, shifting  his  feet,  darting  impotent  glances 
round  the  room,  and  twitching  his  fingers. 

Then  new  resolves  formed  in  his  mind.  He 
approached  her,  and  spoke  quietly. 

"  Very  well  then,  I'll  go.  I  want  to  be  every- 
thing that  you  wish  me  to  be.  I'm  yours.  I'll 
give  myself  over  to  you  to  do  what  you  like  with. 
If  you  say  go,  I'll  go;  even  though  I  know  you're 
wrong.  But  I  do  ask  one  thing:  I'm  going  up  to 
town  now  to  make  a  few  last  arrangements,  and 
to-night  I'm  going  down  to  Felgate.  I  shan't 
come  back.  I've  packed  my  things  and  I  shall 
send  for  them.  You  won't  see  me  again — unless 
you  want  to.  Celia,  will  you  promise  me  if  I  go 
now  to  think  it  over  this  afternoon,  to  remember 
that  it's  a  matter  of  our  whole  lives,  to  think 
which  is  most  important — us  or  a  few  ceremonies. 
Will  you  think  it  over  and  if  you  find  I'm  right 
come  up  to  town  and  meet  me  and  go  with  me? 
If  you  don't  come  I  shall  know  you've  turned  me 


LOVE  229 

down,  and  we  shall  never  see  each  other  again. 
But  if  you  do — oh  Celia,  for  heaven's  sake  look 
honestly  at  the  matter  and  don't  be  blinded!  If 
you  do  find  I'm  right  I'll  be  at  Waterloo  at — let's 
see — there's  a  train  leaves  here  at  6.5 — catch 
that  and  come  to  me.  Celia,  promise  me  this,  and 
I'll  go  at  once." 

Her  heart  beat  wildly  as  all  the  possibilities, 
agonies,  and  dangers  of  those  intervening  hours 
became  apparent  to  her. 

"  Oh  Leonard,  if  I  think  any  more  about  it 
I.  ...  We'd  much  better  settle  it  now.  I  say  no 
now  while  I'm  strong,  but  don't  ask  me  to  begin 
it  all  over  again.  I  can't.  I  want  it  closed." 

Confidence  warmed  him,  as  he  saw  the  ally 
those  hours,  with  their  solitude  and  their  silence, 
would  prove. 

"  Darling,  you  refuse  me  everything.  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  be  so  cruel.  Don't  refuse  me 
this.  You  know  you'll  have  to  think  about  it. 
You  won't  be  able  to  help  it,  so  I'm  not  really  ask- 
ing you  to  do  anything  for  me,  only  to  promise 
me  that  you  won't  be  blinded  by  social  conven- 
tions; that  you'll  be  just.  Celia,  think  it  over  and 


230  TEN  HOURS 

come  to  me  if  you  can.  Will  you  ?  Say  you  will. 
Because  it's  not  a  thing  that  can  be  settled  at  once; 
it's  so  big;  there's  so  much  to  consider.  Remem- 
ber what  it  means  to  us  both.  I'm  going  now, 
and  you  won't  see  me  again  unless  you  want  to." 

He  was  touching  her,  bending  his  appealing  and 
harassed  face  to  hers,  drowning  her  in  the  ardor 
of  his  expression. 

"  Very  well,  only  go  now,  please  go  now.  I'll 
think  it  over,  but  I'm  certain  my  answer  will  be 
the  same — it  must  be  the  same." 

He  kissed  her  mouth,  her  cheeks,  her  throat. 
Then  he  said: 

"  To-night  soon  after  six,  or  not  at  all.  Good- 
by,  Celia." 

She  felt  the  stuff  of  his  coat  and  the  warmth  of 
his  lips;  then  she  was  in  contact  with  nothing. 
The  floor  shifted  like  dark  water;  in  her  ears  was 
a  humming,  dreadful  and  monotonous.  She  saw 
him  open  the  door,  turn,  and  smile  troublously  at 
her.  Then  she  was  staring  at  the  four  white 
panels  of  the  wood. 

She  sat  down. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  LURE 

THERE  succeeded  an  age  of  blankness,  of  torpor 
for  mind  and  body.  Occasionally  a  shudder 
passed  over  her,  but  for  the  most  part  she  sat 
without  movement,  her  brow  on  her  hand,  and  her 
eyes  closed.  Very  far  away,  meaningless,  and 
unreal,  sounded  the  noises  of  the  external  world. 
Then,  gradually  and  with  pain,  her  body  regained 
its  sensitiveness,  her  mind,  grown  perceptive  once 
more,  flinched  as  thought  struck  it. 

She  began  to  live  over  again  the  scene  with 
Leonard.  At  first  dully  but  soon  with  nervous 
swiftness,  her  brain  reconstructed  its  moments 
from  the  time  when  he  entered  the  room  to  the 
time  when  he  left  it.  How  had  it  all  happened? 
How  did  it  all  appear  now  that  it  was  composed 
and  in  focus? 

She  recalled  his  features,  movements,  and 
glances.  She  was  again  subjected  to  his  caresses, 
231 


232  TEN  HOURS 

but  her  retrospects  did  not  inflame  her.  She 
shifted  her  position,  pressing  her  cold  palms  be- 
tween her  knees,  opening  her  eyes  and  staring 
vacantly  before  her,  but  as  if  through  satiety  of 
sensation  her  body  responded  to  her  thoughts 
only  by  painful  starts  which  were  not  compli- 
cated by  underlying  pleasure.  At  the  time  she 
had  found  his  kisses  perfect,  but  now  in  memory 
the  sweetness  had  gone  from  them;  as  she  felt 
their  ghostliness  on  her  cheeks  and  lips  she  was 
conscious  only  of  a  corroding  shame. 

Moving  on  through  the  scene  she  reached  his 
plans  for  their  life  at  Felgate.  Every  one  of  his 
descriptive  sentences  flamed  across  her  vision, 
and  now  she  thrilled.  Her  pulses  began  to  sing; 
now  longing  broke  over  her  and  carried  her  out 
beyond  the  room,  the  town,  into  the  desired  loveli- 
ness of  the  woods. 

Her  unconscious  self  which  had  spoken  in  all 
those  nightly  dreams  with  their  recurrent  scenery 
of  down  and  open  spaces,  found  its  possible  grati- 
fication in  the  life  now  offered  her.  Feverishly  it 
drove  its  messages  through  to  her  imagination 
which,  hearing  and  responding,  built  rapid  pictures 


THE  LURE  233 

out  of  the  few  sentences  with  which  Leonard  had 
described  Felgate. 

II 

She  saw  the  cottage,  low,  white-walled,  with  its 
deep  garden  whispering  round  it  and  gloomed  with 
the  night's  black.  She  saw  the  broad  rutted  road, 
its  ridges  crisp  in  frosty  weather,  and  after  rain 
muddy  above  brown  water.  The  road  went  down 
past  a  copse,  past  a  hedgerow,  tangled  and  wet, 
and  past  a  grassy  space  rimmed  with  bushes  and 
hazels  where  field  mice  slipped  stealthily  amid  the 
roots;  it  forked  off  to  left  and  right  and  went 
straight  on  between  meadows  searching  away  into 
the  gray  distances,  until  it  caught  the  hovering 
cloud  of  pinewoods,  and  was  swept  by  the  breath 
of  their  hanging  and  fallen  cones,  their  murmuring 
needles,  their  beds  of  broken  boughs. 

A  voice  in  her  said  over  and  over  again,  "  You'll 
have  all  this — you'll  have  all  this." 

Swiftly  in  fancy  she  retraced  her  steps  along 
the  road,  seeing  its  surface  flowing  on  either  side 
of  her  smoothly  as  a  stream;  receiving  the  wind 
as  it  plunged  down  from  the  hill  and  rolled  on 


234  TEN  HOURS 

across  bowing  grasses  and  communing  trees.  She 
reached  the  cottage. 

Her  mind  halted,  selecting  the  most  magical 
of  hours  and  seasons.  Dusk — Spring — It  whirled 
again,  its  energies  heating  her  cheeks  and  catching 
her  breath. 

She  and  Leonard  would  go  up  past  the  cottage 
into  the  wood  when  all  the  fields  were  gray  except 
those  stretching  under  the  pink  and  coppery  flats 
of  the  west.  They  would  see  the  dark  road  wind- 
ing up  beside  banks  heaped  with  leaves  and 
branches  and  trails  of  unbudded  weeds;  they 
would  see  the  deep  hollows  filled  wit*h  dusk,  and 
the  stems  speeding  up  through  the  unbroken  bush, 
through  an  atmosphere  hazed  over  into  smoky 
blueness  by  innumerable  boles  and  crests.  Rotting 
pads  of  growth  would  breathe  out  towards  them; 
slight  noises  would  rise  and  cease:  sinuous  shak- 
ings and  cracklings  by  which  one  could  trace  the 
retreat  of  stealthy  creatures.  Through  gaps  they 
would  see  the  light  flickering  out  and  the  west 
smoldering  into  gray.  Leonard's  arm  would  be 
round  her.  For  miles  and  miles  there  would  be 
neither  sound  nor  movement.  She  would  walk 


THE  LURE  235 

with  him,  suiting  her  step  to  his,  watching  the 
distant  trees  fade  into  vapors,  the  darkness  brush- 
ing the  empty  ways  beyond,  the  west  cooling,  and 
one  star  blazing  over  the  huddled  woodlands  in 
the  east. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  stared  unseeingly  round 
the  room. 

"  You  can  have  all  this.     It  will  be  like  this." 

Ill 

She  pressed  her  cheeks  against  her  palms  and 
thought  once  more. 

There  would  be  the  warmth  and  comfort  of  the 
cottage.  No  tall  blank  moody  house  like  this,  but 
a  squat  and  friendly  place,  visited  by  fugitive 
scents,  sudden  hurries  of  wind,  sudden  trepidations 
of  bough.  From  its  window  would  be  visible  the 
frosts  of  winter  crusting  grass  and  twig  and  cut- 
ting distances  out  against  a  leaden  sky;  fogs  belt- 
ing the  fields;  rains  lisping  into  the  lush  grasses 
and  the  bushes,  blowing  and  rippling  over  flat- 
nesses, splashing  down  slopes  into  pools  and  chan- 
nels. There  would  be  the  blackthorn  now  flower- 
ing in  this  premature  spring,  gorse  carrying  its 


236  TEN  HOURS 

little  flames,  sap  steaming,  leaves  unfolding,  every- 
where the  rush  of  quickening  life.  There  would 
be  the  blue  dusks,  and  the  stars  swinging  down, 
and  distantly  beyond  the  untilled  land,  beyond  the 
glimmering  skeins  of  roads,  the  lights  of  the  town, 
large  and  yellow  beneath  those  other  lights  stand- 
ing as  fires,  as  jets  all  across  the  sky.  And  most 
of  all  no  sound;  no  movement  except  the  slow 
rocking  of  the  pines. 

A  train  whistle  hurt  her  nerves.  She  looked 
through  the  window  at  the  stiff  gorse  crawling 
over  the  stones,  at  the  staring  walls,  the  aching 
vacancy  of  windows,  the  unending  lines  of  wire 
and  pole  and  railing. 

She  shivered.    Her  mind  chattered. 

"  You  can  get  away  from  all  this ;  get  away  to 
the  country.  You're  ill,  tired;  you  want  rest. 
You  can  have  it.  He  loves  you.  He'll  look 
after  you.  Think  of  the  spring  coming,  and  the 
summer." 

IV 

There  would  be  primroses  pushing  up  through 
the  mold,  and  lighting  low  fires  amid  the  browns 
of  the  trees;  there  would  be  bluebells.  .  .  . 


THE  LURE  237 

She  could  go  down  the  road  and  give  to  the  eye 
reasts  of  plowed  land  where  the  great  lumps  of 
earth  were  rough  and  dark  and  good,  where  the 
jingling  of  harness  came  on  the  wind,  where  birds 
dipped  and  mounted  steeply.  She  would  see  thin 
blue  plumes  of  smoke  rising  up  the  skyline  from 
suggested  villages,  levels  of  light  along  the  van- 
ishing rims  of  fields,  the  pines  notched  blackly 
under  ridged  cloud,  the  road  racing  on,  bending 
into  valleys,  striving  up  hills,  falling  again  to  the 
hamlets.  She  could  have  all  this  so  easily;  one 
step  gained  it.  O  God !  what  was  she  to  do  ? 

V 

She  did  not  perceive  how  it  was  the  back- 
ground, and  not  the  figure,  which  dragged  at  her 
heart.  She  was  blind  to  the  nature  of  her  love. 
This  had  no  root  in  the  most  real  and  unshakable 
parts  of  her  character.  It  was  a  passion  born  of 
disillusion,  discontents,  and  bodily  fatigue.  Slight 
but  stinging  things  had  called  it  into  being;  slight 
things,  despite  its  seeming  strength,  would  be  suffi- 
cient to  destroy  it.  Pain  at  Robert's  supposed 
solidity,  dislike  of  the  suburb,  the  ceaseless  de- 


23  8  TEN  HOURS 

mands  of  that  underlying  love  of  Barnham  work- 
ing in  her  and  producing  nostalgia,  nerves  frayed 
by  toothache,  the  seduction  of  Leonard's  admir- 
ing deference  contrasted  with  Robert's  matter-of- 
fact  calm,  Leonard's  physical  attractions — all 
these  had  shaped  a  passion,  huge,  possessive  and 
overwhelming,  but  nevertheless,  without  real 
body.  She  imagined  herself  to  be  torn  by  a  last- 
ing love,  but  actually  she  was  merely  expanded 
by  a  balloon-like  mass  of  feelings  which,  once 
pricked,  would  dissipate  harmlessly,  leaving  her 
foundations  unbroken. 

But  she  did  not  know  this,  and  her  torment, 
her  conflict,  were  intense ;  for  the  time  her  tempta- 
tion racked  her. 

VI 

If  she  liked  she  could  leave  home  to-night.  She 
had  only  to  go  to  the  station,  and  the  train  would 
take  her  to  London,  to  Leonard. 

What  had  he  said?  What  was  it  he  offered? 
If  she  went  what  would  follow? 

They  would  leave  London  behind — the  dark- 
ness, the  smoke,  the  sonorous  throb  of  its  spaces, 


THE  LURE  239 

and  pass  into  the  repose  and  perfume  of  the  coun- 
tryside. She  would  be  wrapped  in  love,  bowed  to, 
protected,  ardently  considered.  They  would  be 
well  off — a  little  house — a  few  rooms — a  maid — 
no  dusty  streets  with  their  traffic,  and  their  files 
of  haggard  and  malodorous  people;  no  coarse 
smell  of  meat  and  fish;  no  tearing  noises,  no  hard 
pavements,  nor  strangling  unescapable  network 
of  houses.  There  would  be  the  river  brimming 
up  to  its  banks,  the  cows  stationary  in  the  boun- 
dary fields,  church  spires  and  roofs,  and  strag- 
gling farms  with  their  quiet  sounds  and  the  com- 
ing and  going  of  carts. 

VII 

Again  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  round  the 
room.  Her  feverish  excitement  drove  her  into 
movement.  She  got  up  and  began  to  walk  back- 
wards and  forwards,  thoughts  cutting  like  swords 
through  her  sick  brain. 

"What  madness  you're  thinking  of!  ...  It 
hasn't  happened;  it's  a  dream.  .  .  .  What  have 
you  done?  What  are  you  doing?  For  heaven's 
sake,  get  back  to  your  old  self.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't 


240  TEN  HOURS 

stand  it!  Oh  God,  why  do  you  let  these  things 
happen?  ...  I  love  him.  .  .  .  Do  I?  How 
can  I?  I'm  married.  How  did  I  ever  get  like 
this?  Why  didn't  I  see  it  coming  and  stop  it? 
That's  why  I  felt  so  rotten.  I  loved  him  and 
didn't  know  it." 

She  paused,  visualizing  his  room  and  her  agi- 
tation in  it.  All  recent  tremors  and  excitements 
were  remembered,  were  explained. 

She  clenched  her  hands. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am !  I  must  stop  this.  He 
ought  not  to  have  told  me.  He  was  cruel.  .  .  . 
No,  he  loved  me.  He  had  to  tell  me.  Why 
should  I  expect  him  to  be  strong  when  I'm  not? 
.  .  .  What  are  we  to  do?  I  can't  go.  It's  im- 
possible. I'm  not  made  for  it.  .  .  .  How  do  I 
know  whether  I'm  made  for  it,  or  not?  I've 
never  felt  before.  I've  vegetated.  I'm  young. 
It's  my  whole  life.  What  am  I  *o  do?  I've  got 
to  make  up  my  mind  before  six.  I  shall  never 
see  him  again.  It  will  all  end  at  six.  I  shall 
stop  here  for  always;  things  will  go  on  the  same 
— oh,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  If  I  go  ...  I  can't  go. 
If  I  go — what  shall  I  have?  .  .  .  Everything  I 


THE  LURE  241 

want — everything  I  want.  .  .  .  O  what  a  fool  I 
am!  How  did  I  ever  come  to  get  like  this?  If 
only  it  hadn't  happened!  If  only  I  could  wake 
up!" 

She  sat  down  again  by  the  window,  and  relapsed 
into  heavy  lethargy. 

Another  age  of  dark  and  featureless  languor 
passed  over  her.  She  seemed  to  be  drifting  on  a 
river  sluggish  and  black,  drifting  through  long 
nights  of  emptiness  and  dread.  Then  the  sur- 
face was  ruffled;  things  pushed  up;  scenes  formed, 
and  were  studied,  and  understood. 

The  house  was  beginning  to  move.  Silencing 
the  countryside,  it  stretched  its  pervasive  influ- 
ence over  her;  it  compelled  her  attention;  inexora- 
bly it  controlled  her. 

VIII 

She  did  not  think;  she  saw. 

Picture  after  picture  sped  before  her.  Felgate 
was  beaten  back  into  fantastic  unreality.  She  was 
in  the  house,  looking  on  its  every  "orner  "and  in- 
cident. 

She  saw  all  the  day's  routine — the  cooking,  the 


242  TEN  HOURS 

dusting,  the  shopping.  The  staircase  was  round 
her,  with  its  glazed  paper,  the  white  beams  slant- 
ing through  the  frosted  landing  window,  and  the 
glint  of  the  stair-rods.  She  saw  the  grandfather's 
clock  in  the  hall,  and  heard  its  ticking.  She  saw 
her  bedroom,  and  Robert  putting  on  his  collar; 
she  felt  the  pillow  bulging  about  her  face  as  she 
watched  him  sleepily. 

She  revisualized  the  engagement — the  walks 
down  the  Brighton  road  to  the  railway,  his  fond- 
ness, and  her  contentment  She  heard  the  thun- 
der in  the  beech  tops  and  saw  the  wagons  rum- 
bling slowly  down  from  the  harvest  fields,  the 
sheaves  standing  in  rows,  and  birds  hopping  amid 
the  stubble.  He  had  held  her  and  kissed  her. 
His  face  was  clear  in  her  memory,  and  she  looked 
at  it,  but  whether  with  horror  or  pity  or  affection 
she  did  not  know. 

She  remembered  an  evening  when  they  had 
walked  through  a  copse  and  come  out  into  fields 
where  the  haymaking  was  started.  The  sun  had 
gone  from  the  sky,  but  hot  crimsons  fired  the  trees 
and  burnt  upon  the  fields.  They  had  walked  for 
a  long  time,  smelling  the  prone  grass,  seeing  the 


THE  LURE  243 

stars  shoot  through,  and  the  moon  rise  above 
screens  of  mist.  Robert  had  been  passionate 
then,  pressing  her  against  his  side,  saying  little, 
but  staring  at  her  with  sober  and  devoted  eyes. 

She  saw  her  wedding  night. 

Unbearable  heat  rushed  over  her.  She  was 
bound  to  him,  body  and  soul.  She  was  a  wife. 
She  knew  what  Leonard  wanted.  If  she  went, 
she  went  knowing  the  sequel. 

Her  dull  eyes  lifted  and  gazed  at  the  walls,  the 
books,  the  typewriter. 

Robert  was  by  her;  he  was  holding  her,  and 
detaining  her.  She  remembered  his  shirt  that 
wanted  a  button  sewn  on  it,  and  his  socks  that 
wanted  darning.  She  felt  him  sleeping  beside  her. 
She  felt  his  tranquil  kiss,  sustained  his  gaze,  saw 
his  overcoat  and  hat  on  the  hall  stand.  She  saw 
him  riding  through  the  country,  riding  home  to 
her.  She  saw  six  o'clock  come  and  go;  herself 
still  here;  to-night  with  its  sleeplessness,  its  ago- 
nizing regrets,  his  regular  breathing,  the  vision 
of  Leonard's  pale  reproachful  jealous  face. 


244  TEN  HOURS, 

IX 

< 

She  sprang  up,' and  going  to  the  fire,  put  on 
coal,  poked  it,  and  set  the  shovel  and  poker  down 
with  a  clatter.  .  .  . 

She  could  not  go.  She  could  not  stay.  She 
could  not  face  Robert.  She  dared  not  leave  him. 
If  only  she  could  wake!  If  only  it  had  never 
happened ! 

She  pressed  distracted  hands  to  her  temples. 
Whimperings  broke  from  her.  She  saw  the  great 
red  sun  staring  in  at  the  window;  she  heard  the 
life  of  the  allotments.  Now  the  hand  of  the 
house  was  on  her  heart  suffocating  it.  Its  silence 
trammeled  her.  The  old  Celia  and  the  new 
rocked  together  in  a  death  struggle.  The  country 
met  the  house  and  the  two  flashed  about  her,  striv- 
ing to  possess  her.  She  saw  Leonard  and  Rob- 
ert with  equal  clearness  and  feared  them  both. 
She  was  pulled  both  ways  and  in  turn  she  hated 
each  alternative.  At  one  moment  she  strove  vio- 
lently towards  the  happiness  promised  by  Leon- 
ard; at  the  next  she  shrank  from  it  as  from  an 


THE  LURE  245 

unspeakable  mire.  At  one  moment  the  house  was 
a  prison;  at  the  next  a  refuge. 

"  I  want  to  go.  I  want  to  go.  I  want  to  be 
happy — to  be  loved.  ...  I  shouldn't  be  happy 
— I  could  never  be  happy  having  acted  so.  ...  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  settle  down  here.  I  shall 
hate  it  after  all  this — knowing  he  is  miserable — 
wanting  me — thinking  me  cowardly.  Am  I  a 
coward?  Which  is  right?  Can  there  be  any 
doubt?  Do  I  owe  more  to  him  than  to  Robert? 
Am  I  thinking  of  forms  instead  of  the  real  thing? 
Is  it  worse  to  stay  than  to  go — hypocritical — cruel 
to  Robert?  Am  I  prejudiced?  Is  nature  right 
or  social  law?  Which  shall  I  break,  a  moral  or 
a  social  law?  Which  is  right?  Apart  from  my 
own  happiness — which  is  right?" 

At  the  top  of  the  house  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  door  opening  and  closing;  footsteps  were  on 
the  staircase. 

Steeled  and  cold,  Celia  turned  round. 

The  door  opened  and  Gwennie  came  in. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
EFFECTS 

SHE  closed  the  door  with  her  usual  deliberation 
and  stepped  away  from  it,  moving  her  legs  slowly, 
and  placing  her  feet  gently.  All  over  her  face 
was  a  soft  scarlet  flush;  her  lips  were  moist,  her 
nose  slightly  shiny,  her  eyes  almost  shut  but  bright 
and  intelligent.  Her  hair  was  disordered,  and 
her  jumper  rucked  up.  She  brought  into  the  room 
an  atmosphere,  hot,  colorful,  and  despite  her  slow- 
ness, singularly  vital.  She  looked  very  strong  and 
very  baffling,  a  child,  a  girl,  a  woman. 

Celia  gazed  at  her. 

With  that  boundless  capacity  for  bearing  an 
unsympathetic  scrutiny  without  speech  or  self- 
consciousness  she  drew  nearer,  smiling. 

To  Celia  her  appearance  was  like  a  douche  of 
cold  water.  It  was  the  victory  of  the  house.  It 
meant  the  temporary  banishment  of  all  problems, 
246 


EFFECTS  247 

the  complete  readjustment  of  the  room  about  her. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  thrown  from  a  height 
of  tragedy  down  to  commonplace  and  calming 
levels.  As  she  stood  watching  Gwennie,  the  wild- 
ness  faded  from  her  face.  She  was  very  tired, 
very  shaken,  and  very  numb,  but  she  had  recovered 
equilibrium.  Much  as  she  dreaded  inspection,  it 
was  almost  with  relief  that  she  knew  herself  to 
be  back  amid  everyday  things,  with  hysterics  kept 
at  bay  by  the  urgent  need  of  dissimulation. 

She  sat  down  in  the  armchair.  "  Well,  Gwen  ?  " 
she  said.  "  What  have  you  been  doing?  " 

"  Nothing  much."  Gwennie  too  sat  down,  and 
tucking  her  hands  under  her  armpits  gave  herself 
a  little  sudden  squeeze.  Her  color  grew  deeper, 
and  she  sat  more  uprightly  than  usual. 

Celia  stared  at  the  fire.  "  Aren't  you  going 
out?  It's  getting  late;  it'll  soon  be  tea-time." 

Involuntarily  her  eyes  rose  to  the  clock — four — 
at  six.  .  .  . 

"  Mmm.     I  don't  want  to  go  out  though." 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Gwennie  watched 
Celia  with  eyes  which  were  burning  with  life. 

Then  with  a   little  breathless  rush  she   said: 


248  TEN  HOURS 

"  Auntie — think  I  ought  to  tell  you — 1  heard  Mr. 

Hyde  and  you — heard  what  he  said — that  he  loves 

you." 

She  broke  into  an  excited  giggle. 

Celia  jerked  round.  The  shock  went  through 
her  with  a  jarring  force.  She  looked  sightlessly 
at  Gwennie. 

The  latter  was  thrilling  with  zestfulness.  "  I 
came  downstairs — thought  I'd  sit  in  here — and  I 
heard  him  talking.  The  door  was  open  and  I 
couldn't  help  hearing." 

Her  mouth  closed  firmly.  She  did  not  add 
that,  startled,  fascinated,  and  enthralled  into  for- 
getfulness  of  all  honorable  retreat,  she  had 
crouched  against  the  wall,  drinking  in  Leonard's 
words,  blissfully  picturing  his  amatory  stress,  and 
feeling  herself  to  be  against  the  pulsing  heart  of 
a  real  love-affair. 

"  You  heard,"  Celia  spoke  in  a  dry  harsh  voice. 
"  You  listened.  Gwennie!  " 

The  rebuke,  the  supreme  pain  of  that  cry, 
pierced  Gwennie's  innocent  enjoyment  of  the  sit- 
uation and  impressed  her  heart.  She  was  star- 
tled out  of  her  callousness.  Celia's  suffering  and 


EFFECTS  249 

her  own  reprehensible  conduct  were*both  apparent 
to  her. 

"  Awfully  sorry,  auntie,  but  I  couldn't  help  hear- 
ing— and  it  doesn't  matter,  as  it's  only  me.  I 
shan't  say  anything." 

Anger  forced  Celia  into  composure.  Gwennie 
to  know !  Gwennie,  silly  shallow  little  schoolgirl, 
to  treat  the  matter  as  a  confidence  safely  reposed 
in  her  and  which  should  not  be  passed  on  to  the 
girls  in  the  office!  Gwennie  reveling  in  confed- 
eracy, seizing  on  the  situation  as  on  a  blessed 
break  in  the  day's  monotony ! 

She  was  thoroughly  in  command  of  herself  now. 
"  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Gwennie.  You're  a  very 
naughty  girl." 

Gwennie's  expression  stopped  her  by  its  merci- 
less illumination  of  the  absurdity  of  her  words. 
Unabashed  and  easy,  Gwennie  looked  at  her,  her 
mouth  smiling,  her  eyes  knowing.  The  droop  of 
her  lids,  the  faint  lift  of  her  brows,  the  indolent 
swing  of  one  foot,  all  pointed  out  the  precarious^ 
ness  of  Celia's  position,  and  her  dependence  on 
Gwennie's  honor,  her  unfitness  for  the  part  of 
mentor. 


250  TEN  HOURS 

Celia  went  cold.  All  the  subtleties  of  Gwen- 
nie's  character  were  revealed;  all  her  selfishness, 
womanliness,  girlish  perversities,  ruthless  inspec- 
tions, and  narrow  judgments.  She  saw  them  all 
and  knew  herself  to  be  in  their  power.  She  was 
aware  at  last  of  Gwennie's  personality,  was  pit- 
ted against  it  when  she  was  least  capable  of  se- 
lecting weapons  and  raising  defenses. 

Color  flooded  her  face,  and  ebbed  away.  She 
sat  with  her  shoulders  bowed,  her  mouth  help- 
lessly pouted,  and  her  eyes,  younger  than  Gwen- 
nie's own,  fixed  on  the  girl.  Crushed  by  this  last 
shock,  she  could,  for  the  moment,  neither  speak 
nor  move. 

Gwennie  enjoyed  her  triumph.  She  was  im- 
mersed in  the  situation.  Every  moment  she 
learnt  more  of  it,  and  saw  fresh  aspects,  and 
tingled  as  her  own  relation  to  them  became  clear. 
Auntie  was  in  love — frightfully  in  love,  and  not 
with  her  husband.  Mr.  Hyde  was  frightfully  in 
love  with  auntie.  He  wanted  her  to  run  away 
with  him — at  six  o'clock. 

Gwennie's  gaze  sought  the  clock. 


EFFECTS  251 

"  Past  four,"  she  said  allusively. 

Celia  started.  The  tension  at  her  heart  in- 
creased. She  was  still  unable  to  deal  with 
Gwennie. 

Gwennie  continued,  her  thoughts  too  fascinat- 
ing to  be  hidden. 

"  He  said  six,  auntie — are  you  going?" 

Celia's  brain  whirled.  She  could  have  groveled 
for  shame;  she  could  have  beaten  herself  because 
by  her  own  actions  she  had  subjected  herself  to 
this  unpardonable  inquisition,  from  Gwennie,  a 
child,  her  niece. 

Her  brain  cleared.  At  last  in  the  emergency 
of  the  moment,  her  supports  rallied  round  her; 
pride,  clear-sightedness,  composure. 

She  spoke  slowly,  looking  at  Gwennie  with 
hard  expressionless  eyes.  "  You  forget  yourself, 
Gwennie." 

Once  more  she  was  stabbed  by  Gwennie' s  as- 
pect. The  flickering  eyelid,  the  inscrutable  smile, 
the  growing  laxity  of  her  position  in  the  chair, 
they  were  not  childish,  they  were  womanly.  Their 
impertinence  did  not  lessen  their  force.  When 


252  TEN  HOURS 

Gwennie  spoke,  her  girlish  phraseology  was  in  be- 
wildering contrast  to  them,  but  they,  not  it,  seemed 
the  true  manifestation  of  her  character. 

u  I  don't  mean  to  be — oh,  you  know — don't 
mean  to  hurt  you.  But — it's  so  frightfully  in- 
t' resting.  He's  awfully  nice,  isn't  he?  " 

Temper  spurted  in  Celia.  She  could  have  taken 
Gwennie  by  her  plump  shoulders  and  shaken 
her. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  discuss  it  with  you,"  she  ex- 
claimed sharply.  "  It  was  shameful  of  you  to 
listen,  and  you  forget  your  age  and  mine  when  you 
question  me.  As  you  have  heard — I  can't  pre- 
tend to  you  that  nothing's  happened,  but  nothing 
more's  to  be  said  about  it." 

Her  shame  tortured  her,  but  she  kept  her  eyes 
on  Gwennie,  her  face  remained  set  and  deter- 
mined. "Has  father  come  in  yet?"  she  con- 
tinued. 

Gwennie  slid  into  a  still  more  sprawling  posi- 
tion. "  Ner,"  she  muttered.  Her  eyes  filmed 
over;  she  smiled  at  the  fire. 

Celia  ignored  her  rudeness.  "  It's  time  he  did. 
It's  getting  cold  and  damp." 


EFFECTS  253 

She  walked  to  the  window. 

Gwennie  sent  a  dark  look  after  her.  She  was 
angry,  and  when  she  was  angry  her  intuitions 
were  sharpened,  and  she  knew  where  to  plant  her 
stings.  Auntie  to  talk  like  this !  Gwennie's  age 
indeed!  Gwennie  was  no  child.  She  understood 
the  significance  of  the  scene  with  Leonard,  and 
since  she  had  been  in  the  room  she  had  discov- 
ered auntie's  suffering.  When  she  came  in  she 
had  been  on  fire  with  curiosity — she  had  been  sym- 
pathetic too.  Had  she  not  her  boy?  Did  she 
not  know  the  intoxicating  appeal  of  these  rela- 
tions? But  now  auntie — auntie,  who  let  a  man 
make  love  to  her — to  take  this  tone!  Why,  if 
she,  Gwennie  liked,  she  could  tell  uncle,  and  then 
there'd  be  a  scene !  She  would  show  auntie  that 
she  was  neither  young  nor  harmless.  She  wanted 
to  be  an  ally,  but  she  could  be  an  enemy.  Auntie 
should  be  made  to  tell  her  what  turn  events  were 
going  to  take  I 

Shaken  out  of  her  habitual  caution  and  reserve 
by  the  power  of  the  scene,  she  spoke  drawlingly 
but  distinctly.  "You  needn't  fly  out,  auntie.  I 
didn't  mean  anything.  Of  course  I  want  to  know 


254  TEN  HOURS 

if  you're  going.  It's  such  a  difficult  question,  isn't 
it?" 

Celia  looked  at  the  garden  full  of  soft  rosy 
light  but  no  longer  sunny,  and  at  father  tipping  the 
leaves  into  the  dustbin;  then  she  turned  round 
and  laughed  harshly. 

"You  are  ridiculous,  Gwennie!  If  you  knew 
how  absurd  you  are  making  yourself,  besides  be- 
ing impertinent !  When  I  asked  you  to  remember 
that  it  is  not  your  place  to  question  me,  I  meant 
what  I  said.  I  think  you  don't  understand  that. 
.  .  .  Why  don't  you  get  your  jumper  down,  and 
do  some  before  tea?  There's  time  for  a  row  if 
you  start  at  once." 

Gwennie  looked  at  her  from  under  swollen  lids. 
Her  mouth  grew  obstinate;  she  had  become  wil- 
ful, lowering,  and  secretive.  She  did  not  answer, 
but  resting  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  gazed  at  the 
fire.  Her  silence,  her  pose,  were  insulting. 

Celia  turned  back  to  the  window.  She  opened 
it  and  put  out  her  head. 

"  Coming  in,  father?" 

His  long  mournful  face  was  uplifted.     "  Eh?  " 

"  Are  you  coming  in?  " 


EFFECTS  255 

"  Not  just  yet.     I've  a  little  more  tidying." 

"  Mind  you  don't  get  cold." 

"  It's  quite  safe.     I  should  like  to  finish  this." 

"  All  right." 

She  closed  the  window,  so  great  a  loneliness 
and  misery  surging  over  her  that  tears  stung  her 
throat.  She  would  not  look  at  Gwennie  but  she 
was  conscious  of  every  curve  of  the  opulent  fig- 
ure, of  the  exposed  outstretched  legs,  the  warm 
face,  and  the  black  untidy  hair.  The  room,  the 
house,  were  leaden  weights  which  crushed  her  into 
torpor. 

Gwennie,  after  laborious  thought,  spoke  with- 
out temper. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  mind  my  know- 
ing. As  I  heard,  it  can't  be  helped,  and  I'm  not 
so  young  as  you  think.  And  I  shan't  tell  any- 
body." 

She  heard  but  disregarded  Celia's  quiet 
"  Gwennie." 

"  I  know  a  lot  more  than  you  think,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  sometimes  it's  better  if  you  talk  it  over 
with  some  one — seems  to  clear  it  up.  .  .  ." 

"  Gwennie,"  Celia  said  again. 


256  TEN  HOURS 

Impressed  momentarily,  Gwennie  looked  at 
her. 

"Will  you  go  down  and  put  the  kettle  on?" 
Celia  continued.  "  The  gas  not  too  much  up." 

"  In  a  minute,"  Gwennie  replied. 

Celia's  lips  tightened.  While  she  considered 
the  wisdom  of  a  more  pointed  rebuke,  Gwennie 
reviewed  the  advantages  of  the  situation. 

Her  distrust  was  dwindling  rapidly  now  that 
she  saw  auntie  in  a  new  light,  no  longer  matronly, 
sedate,  without  understanding  of  the  joys  which 
swayed  Gwennie,  and  possessed  of  legitimate  au- 
thority to  thwart  these,  but  possessed  of  the  same 
impulses;  filled  with  the  same  conception  of  love 
as  the  essential  good;  in  Gwennie's  power,  too, 
since  her  secret  was  known.  She  stood  now  on 
the  same  level  as  Gwennie.  She  was  no  longer 
to  be  suspected  or  deceived.  Those  confidences 
which  Gwennie  poured  fluently  into  the  ears  of  the 
girls  at  the  office  would  be  understood  here ;  they 
could  be  made  safely  since  Gwennie  was,  in  her 
own  phraseology,  "  top  dog." 

This  reasoning  led  her  into  rapid  earnest 
speech. 


EFFECTS  257 

"  Fancy  him  falling  in  love  with  you — fright- 
fully exciting!  Did  you  guess,  or  did  it  come  as 
a  surprise?  I  thought  you'd  seemed  quiet  lately 
— but  I  knew  it  might  be  the  tooth.  Of  course 
if  you  go,  uncle  will  divorce  you,  I  s'pose?  It's 
very  hard,  isn't  it — to  know  what  to  do,  I  mean. 
You  must  be  worried.  .  .  .  Auntie — which  will 
you  do?  You've  got  to  make  up  your  mind  so 
quickly." 

She  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  then  eagerly,  sym- 
pathetically, even  affectionately,  at  Celia. 

Celia  did  not  stop  her  now.  A  change  had 
taken  place  in  her  mind.  Lacerating  as  this  un- 
pardonable commentary  was,  she  did  not  now  de- 
sire to  silence  it.  She  saw  that  it  disclosed  Gwen- 
nie's  character.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  standing 
on  the  edge  of  a  pit  hitherto  veiled,  but  now 
stripped  and  exposed  by  every  sentence.  She  felt 
that  she  must  know  what  lay  at  the  bottom;  how 
deep,  how  shallow,  how  light,  how  dark,  Gwen- 
nie's  innermost  being  might  be.  She  had  a  dread- 
ful choking  fear  of  finding  horrors  in  the  sedi- 
ment at  the  bottom. 

Sitting  immobile,  her  back  to  the  window,  her 


258  TEN  HOURS 

face  in  shadow,  she  listened,  watching  Gwennie. 

The  latter,  encouraged  by  silence  and  thrilled 
by  a  feeling  of  competence,  flowed  on  in  her  thin 
effortless  little  voice. 

"  I  can  understand  something  of  what  you  feel. 
I've  got  my  own  friends,  you  know.  I've  never 
said  anything  because  I  didn't  think  you'd  under- 
stand, but  it's  different  now.  .  .  .  His  name's 
Harry.  I've  known  him  for  a  month.  That's 
his  photo  on  my  dressing-table.  'Spect  you've 
seen  it.  He's  awfully  nice." 

She  paused.  Caution  stirred  in  her,  driving 
her  to  measure  Celia  again  with  eyes  which  had 
lost  their  girlish  candor  and  grown  lusterless,  but 
she  read  neither  warning  nor  menace  in  Celia's 
shadowed  face  and  drooping  body.  The  charm 
of  her  confidences  lulled  her.  She  was  enjoying 
herself  too  much  to  mask  herself  again.  Her 
vanity  was  gratified  by  this  display  of  her  own 
powers  of  attracting  admirers.  Auntie  was  not 
the  only  one  who  was  loved ! 

She  resumed.  "  He's  awf'ly  smitten.  He's 
quite  a  bother  sometimes  wanting  me  to  go  out 
with  him.  I  have  been  once  or  twice — in  the 


EFFECTS  259 

evenings.  Doris  came  too,  but  .  .  .  sometimes 
we've  lost  her." 

She  laughed,  shaking  her  shoulders.  "  He 
doesn't  want  Doris.  He's  awf 'ly  generous — treats 
me  well — buys  me  chocolates  and  takes  me  to  the 
pictures.  .  .  .  It's  lovely.  ...  I  can't  under- 
stand how  a  girl  can  want  only  girl  friends,  can 
you?" 

The  naivete  of  this  demand  drew  a  faint  smile 
to  Celia's  lips,  yet  she  did  not  feel  mirthful.  She 
was  fascinated.  Advancing  on  her  was  a  black 
sea  of  unhappiness,  but  she  had  power  to  prevent 
it  engulfing  her  too  prematurely.  She  must  hear 
Gwennie  out  first. 

Again  the  latter  resumed.  "  He's  awf'ly  fond 
of  me.  I  daresay  we  shall  be  engaged  some  day 
— if  I  don't  see  some  one  I  like  better  first.  He 
wants  me  to  go  out  with  him  to-night.  I  wouldn't 
promise,  but  I  expect  I  shall." 

She  was  silenced  by  the  prospect  evoked  by  her 
words — the  twilight,  the  streets,  Harry.  Her 
imagination,  fired  by  Leonard's  ardent  avowals, 
progressed  farther  than  usual.  "  Once  .  .  ." 
Her  eyes  came  from  the  fire  to  Celia;  suspicion 


26o  TEN  HOURS 

peeped  out  of  them,  and  died.  She  looked  self- 
conscious,  shy,  and  elated.  "  Once — he  tried  to 
kiss  me.  I  didn't  let  him.  I  like  to  tease  him. 
.  .  .  'Spect  he'll  try  again  .  .  .  soon." 

After  a  silence  which  was  only  of  moments, 
though  it  seemed  timeless,  Celia  said,  "  I  see." 

Above  her  sunken  cheeks  her  eyes  were  round 
and  staring.  . 

Gwennie  waited,  expecting  reciprocity  of  con- 
fidence. When  Celia  still  remained  mute  she  got 
up.  "  'Spect  I'd  better  put  the  kettle  on." 

She  stretched  herself,  hollowing  her  back  and 
advancing  her  bosom.  Her  languorous  eyes 
smiled  at  Celia ;  the  tips  of  her  moist  teeth  showed 
between  her  lips.  "  Should  think  it  must  be  nice 
to  be  kissed.  I  know  how  to  make  him  do  it," 
she  said  with  a  silly  excited  laugh. 

After  that  speech  she  could  no  longer  remain 
in  the  room.  She  slid  sinuously  round  the  door. 
The  enormity  of  her  statement  made  her  gasp. 
She  forgot  the  kettle ;  she  forgot  auntie's  alterna- 
tives. Laughing  she  sped  upstairs  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
FORESIGHT 

CELIA  sat  quite  still.  She  looked  at  the  fire ;  she 
heard  the  dustbin  lid  being  moved;  she  heard 
Gwennie's  door  shut;  and  then  silence — a  silence 
which  was  not  a  negation  of  sound  but  a  real  and 
sentient  thing — gripped  the  house  and  sucked  away 
everything  preventive  of  thought.  She  sat  with 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  heart-beat  scarcely 
quickened,  but  with  thoughts  and  pictures  flashing 
through  her  head  so  quickly  and  yet  in  such  com- 
pleteness that  she  felt  herself  to  be  moving — rac- 
ing— from  one  point  to  another,  and  always  pro- 
gressing. 

Gwennie;  Gwennie,  revealed  and  known; 
Gwennie  now  and  in  the  future.  For  the  first 
time  Celia  realized  the  greatness  of  her  responsi- 
bility, and  she  was  shaken,  she  was  almost  broken, 
by  it.  In  her  hands  lay  Gwennie's  perverse,  diffi- 
cult, and  complex  nature.  Gwennie's  maturity 
would  be  the  resultant  of  Celia's  training. 
261 


262  TEN  HOURS 

Supposing  she,  Celia,  went  to  Leonard,  what 
would  happen?  Gwennie,  free,  and  unchecked  by 
discipline,  would  become — what  would  she  be- 
come? Gwennie — Ally's  daughter. 

II 

All  the  romance,  growing  rankly  in  the  girl's 
heart,  was  plain  to  Celia.  All  those  sensuous 
impulses,  harmless  enough  now  perhaps,  but  tend- 
ing to  grow  destructive;  all  the  vanity,  wilfulness, 
and  secretiveness,  the  egotism  and  selfishness,  were 
scored  in  flaming  boldness  before  her.  Gwennie 
needed  more  than  she  had  ever  yet  suspected  a 
strong,  wise,  and  controlling  hand.  She  was  not 
straight.  Confessedly  she  had  deceived  Celia; 
she  had  lived  a  silly  sentimental  life.  While  ap- 
pearing unthinking  and  inert,  she  was  managing 
an  innocent  but  malforming  flirtation;  one  which 
would  make  her  thirsty  for  further  ventures,  for 
further  conquests.  She  was  lowering  herself  and 
her  sexual  knowledge  was  increasing.  "  Should 
think  it  must  be  nice  to  be  kissed."  "  I  know  how 
to  make  him  do  it." 

Celia   shivered.     Why   had   she  not  watched 


FORESIGHT  263 

Gwennie  more  closely,  suspected  the  trend  of 
thought  and  desire,  carefully,  delicately,  set  her- 
•  self  to  gain  the  girl's  confidence  and  respect  and 
obedience  ? 

Why?  Because  she  was  young  herself — 
younger  far  than  Gwennie  in  some  ways — unsus- 
pecting— no,  she  had  suspected  but  she  had  been 
baffled.  Baffled  by  a  girl  of  sixteen?  She  had 
failed  Ally,  but  it  was  not  too  late;  there  was  yet 
time  to  train  the  child. 

Yes,  if  she  stayed,  but  if  she  went.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Leonard,  if  only  you  hadn't  told  me!  If  only  I 
could  undo  it  all !  If  only  I  didn't  love  you ! 

If  she  went,  what  would  Gwennie  become? 

Ill 

She  saw  again  the  luxurious  expansion  of 
Gwennie's  full  body  as  she  stood  up — the  rich 
curves  of  cheek  and  chin  and  the  womanliness 
of  all  her  contours.  She  saw  the  significant 
roguish  glance  of  the  eyes  looking  sideways  from 
under  the  thick  lids.  Gwennie  would  not  long 
remain  young.  If  she  were  left  unguarded  and 
free  to  enjoy  those  evening  walks  with  boys,  she 


264  TEN  HOURS 

would  soon  grow  skilled  in  the  art  of  rousing 
adolescent  passion.  The  giggling,  the  inept  jokes, 
the  shy  silences,  the  awkward  knocking  of  hand 
against  hand  would  not  last,  they  would  not  long 
satisfy  her.  Already  she  glimpsed  the  delights 
of  a  kiss,  and  knew  crudely  the  way  to  obtain 
them.  Soon  her  glance  would  be  expert,  and  her 
bearing  full  of  subtle  incitement.  The  innocuous 
dallyings  would  be  succeeded  by  coarser  familiari- 
ties; her  waist,  her  hands,  her  lips  would  be  cheap- 
ened by  repeated  attacks,  and  the  pastime  would 
fire  her  blood,  and  intoxicate  her  so  that  her  head 
would  whirl  with  gratified  vanity.  She  would  be- 
come a  familiar  figure  among  the  callow  lovers  on 
the  common,  the  matrons  would  condemn  her  as 
a  little  minx;  from  no  one  would  she  win  respect. 
There  were  hundreds  of  girls  like  her  no  doubt, 
but  she  was  Gwennie,  Ally's  daughter,  Celia's 
charge. 

Never  before  had  Celia  trodden  this  path  of 
thought  with  such  sureness,  nor  probed  the  psy- 
chology of  a  flirt  with  such  understanding.  Con- 
tempt, pity,  and  dismay  filled  her  successively.  Or 


FORESIGHT  265 

there  was  another  and  even  more  perilous  phase 
possible  for  Gwennie.  Suppose  she  became  not 
a  systematic  flirt  but  a  sincere  seeker  after  iove. 
Her  obsession  might  take  that  form.  Excited  by 
Celia's  choice  of  all  things  flung  aside  for  love, 
she  might  find  in  the  incident  a  noble  and  roman- 
tic example.  Placing  love  as  the  preeminent  thing 
before  which  nothing  could  nor  should  stand,  she 
might  fall  in  love  with  love ;  she  might  be  whirled 
into  headlong  unconsidered  action;  caught  in  some 
vortex  of  passion  when  complete  surrender  would 
seem  right,  fine,  and  flaming;  the  glory  of  life; 
all  lost  for  love.  Undirected,  untaught,  and  ig- 
norant, Gwennie  might  well  see  Celia  fallen  as 
Celia  exalted;  blinded  by  romance  she  might  fol- 
low the  same  path. 

Icy  coldness,  burning  heat,  subdued  Celia's  body. 
She  moistened  her  dry  lips. 

Stunned  by  the  speed  of  her  insights,  she  looked 
unthinkingly  about  her  and  heard  the  sound  of  a 
rake  on  the  garden  path :  father  was  finishing  the 
rockery. 

Her  thoughts  veered  from  Gwennie  to  him. 


266  TEN  HOURS 

She  had  seen  the  probable  effect  of  her  fligh4:  on 
Gwennie;  and  now  she  passed  to  a  consideration 
of  its  influence  over  him. 

She  grew  tender  as  her  mind  rayed  into  the  fu- 
ture— father's  future. 

If  Gwennie  needed  control,  what  of  him?  He 
had  been  watched  ever  since  she  could  remem- 
ber. Mother,  Ally,  the  boys,  she  herself,  had  all 
accepted  him  as  a  responsibility.  He  was  happy 
now,  occupied,  temperate,  in  every  way  satisfac- 
tory. But  father  broken  by  trouble,  seared  with 
shame,  and  stupefied  by  the  loss  of  Celia  and  the 
circumstances  of  that  loss — what  then? 

She  could  hardly  breathe.  Go,  leave  father, 
leave  Gwennie,  how  could  she  contemplate  such 
action  ? 

"  He'd  be  done  at  once,"  she  murmured  aloud. 
"  He'd  crumple  up." 

Guardianship  removed,  freedom  thrust  on 
him,  before  him  long  dark  days  populous  with 
broodings  and  agonies  and  weak  accusations,  in 
these  circumstances  that  old  temptation  could  not 
remain  dormant.  It  would,  with  its  promise  of 
forgetfulness,  renew  its  power  over  him.  Celia 


FORESIGHT  267 

had  degraded  him;  further  degradation  through 
his  own  acts  must  inevitably  follow.  Celia  had 
broken  his  pride;  what  matter  then  if  he  tramped 
further  into  the  mire?  His  name  was  already 
stained.  To  calm  herself  she  smoothed  her  hair, 
shook  the  curtain  into  a  straighter  fold,  and 
breathed  deeply.  Thought  was  half  dementing 
her. 

Of  course  she  could  not  go.  The  affair  must 
no  longer  be  allowed  to  torture  her  thus.  Leon- 
ard would  have  to  resign  himself  to  defeat;  she 
would  have  to  forget  him.  For  a  few  hours  mad- 
ness had  possessed  her.  Another  Celia  altogether 
had  lived  and  acted  in  this  room,  but  now  that 
was  passed.  She  derided  her  weakness;  she  chas- 
tised herself  for  her  wickedness. 

"  Nearly  tea-time,"  she  said  aloud  in  a  strange 
metallic  voice,  and  straightened  her  shoulders,  and 
shook  her  head. 

Then  a  mist  darkened  across  her  eyes,  and  her 
heart  strove  against  sobs.  Great  crushing  unhap- 
piness  was  on  her  like  a  storm. 


268  TEN  HOURS 

IV 

Again  Leonard  was  by  her  side,  kissing  her. 
She  loved  him. 

The  impossibility-of  yielding  to  him  made  sur- 
render all  the  more  desired.  Now  that  happiness 
seemed  to  be  speeding  beyond  her  reach,  she 
painted  it  in  more  glowing  colors.  It  gained 
beauty  and  splendor  through  its  recession. 

Young  and  beautiful,  Leonard  stood  calling  her 
to  ecstasy,  to  gracious  surroundings,  to  perpetual 
deification.  He  loved  her  and  he  would  give  up 
anything  for  her ;  she  would  give  up  nothing.  She 
placed  Gwennie  and  father  first;  she  considered 
their  future  but  not  his.  Did  she  owe  nothing 
to  him  ?  Was  she  always  to  sacrifice  herself — and 
sacrifice  him  too?  Forms,  laws,  feverish  and 
probably  baseless  imaginings — must  they  keep  her 
from  love  and  happiness?  Was  she  to  deny  her- 
self everything  because  of  the  utterance  of  her 
too  morbid  conscience?  Right  or  wrong — what 
did  it  matter?  Were  other  people  so  good,  so 
austere? 

After  all  this  flame,  and  this  glory  which  one 


FORESIGHT  269 

step  would  secure  her,  she  must  settle  down  to 
the  gray  monotony  of  the  house  and  the  suburb ! 
She  would  not  be  able  to  endure  it.  The  house 
would  suffocate  her;  the  little  snarling  common, 
the  harsh  smells,  the  roads  biting  through  those 
low  banks  of  houses — she  would  hate  them  all. 
Daily  they  would  grind  her  spirit  into  nothingness; 
at  night  in  her  dreams  she  would  see  Leonard  and 
the  fertile  country  side.  Her  nerves  would  be  on 
edge,  Robert's  contact  would  be  pain,  and  his 
prosaic  manner  maddening  after  Leonard's 
ardor. 

It  was  all  Robert's  fault.  Had  he  remained 
loving  she  would  not  have  been  sapped  by  these 
discontents.  Why  had  he  so  soon  grown  prac- 
tical? When  did  the  charm  and  freshness  of 
marriage  first  fade?  Would  Leonard  too  cool 
and  grow  careless?  .  .  .  She  thrust  that  dis- 
quietude aside.  Leonard  was  different;  he  was 
capable  of  deeper  emotion  than  Robert. 

She  paused.  Robert's  face  as  it  had  been  on 
his  wedding  day  came  before  her,  white  and 
strained.  Robert  was  not  shallow. 

Her  honesty  stung  her.     With  quivering  dread 


270  TEN  HOURS 

she  examined  again  that  mental  picture  of  Leon- 
ard. He  was  perfect,  was  he  not? 

The  tension  at  her  heart  became  agony.  She 
rushed  into  thought,  evading  critical  judgment. 

How  could  she  stay  here  with  Gwennie  know- 
ing her  secret,  holding  it  over,  defying  her  si- 
lently? What  power  would  she  now  have  over 
Gwennie?  This  last  scene  had  shown  the  effects 
of  knowledge  on  that  youthful  and  untender  mind. 
Gwennie  had  perceived  and  grasped  her  advan- 
tages; deliberately  she  had  reconstructed  the  re- 
lationship between  herself  and  Celia.  They  were 
equals  now;  there  must  be  no  further  mention  of 
authority.  Celia  was  weak,  peccable,  drifting. 
Gwennie  could  ignore  the  commands  of  such  a  one. 
How  could  she,  Celia,  think  of  training  and  gov- 
erning Gwennie  now? 

Granted  then  the  misery  of  staying.  But  if 
she  went — if  she  went? 

She  turned  her  gaze  to  the  clock.  It  was 
nearly  half-past  four.  Six  o'clock.  If  she  went. 
.  .  .  She  trembled  violently 

The  train  left  at  six;  she  would  go  up  to  town 
and  there  meet  Leonard. 


FORESIGHT  271 

She  saw  the  platform,  and  the  glinting  railway 
lines,  heard  the  throbbing  of  the  engines,  felt 
Leonard's  hand  on  her  arm  as  he  led  her  out  of 
the  station.  London  was  about  her,  stretching 
into  horizons  of  fading  light.  Together  they 
crossed  the  road,  threaded  through  traffic,  saw  the 
lamps  swinging  in  mid-air,  and  the  gentle  swell  of 
the  sky  faintly  green  around  the  first  stars.  They 
entered  the  train  for  Felgate. 

She  had  never  before  known  such  uncon- 
trollable excitement.  The  quiet  country  town 
spread  about  her;  the  Thames  flowed  on,  a  dark 
glimmer  amid  the  darker  meadows;  there  were 
the  lights  of  the  town  behind  her,  and  before 
her  the  blue  night  sweeping  away  to  the  stars 
lit  above  the  earth's  end.  She  reached  the  cot- 
tage. , 

Her  mind  stopped.  She  did  not  know  whether 
it  was  shameful  desire,  or  sickening  repulsion 
which  governed  her  now.  She  only  knew  that 
emotion  had  succeeded  those  swift  accurate  etch- 
ings of  the  future. 

But  only  for  a  second.  Then  again  they  burnt 
before  her  vision. 


272  TEN  HOURS 

Leaping  the  night  with  its  horror  or  its  bliss, 
her  brain  drew  Sunday  morning — the  calmness  of 
the  air  vexed  by  no  sirens,  fouled  by  no  factory 
smokes,  the  sounds  from  the  allotments  mingling 
with  distant  church  bells;  the  house  dim  and 
calm,  the  breakfast  table  and  Gwennie  and  fa- 
ther and  Robert  there — and  no  Celia. 

She  watched  them  prepare  the  meal,  and  stirred 
fretfully  over  their  incompetence.  The  bacon 
would  be  curled  up;  the  eggs  hard-boiled;  they 
would  muddle  everything.  Her  plans  for  din- 
ner absorbed  her.  Gwennie  would  never  do  the 
meat  properly;  she  would  be  certain  to  burn  the 
potatoes.  The  whole  house  would  be  disor- 
ganized, it  would  be  shattered  by  shame  and 
misery. 

The  influence  of  the  house  was  strong  upon  her. 
For  one  tender  and  beautiful  moment  that  as- 
pect of  it  as  a  burden,  a  cage,  was  ripped  away, 
and  she  saw  it  as  home,  as  her  territory,  as  her 
possession.  She  kept  it  so  beautifully;  ran  it  so 
smoothly;  mastered  it,  guided  it.  She  was  the 
head  and  the  other  three  were  all  happily  domi- 
nated by  her. 


FORESIGHT  273 

She  saw  Robert  going  off  to  town  after  a  good 
breakfast;  coming  home  to  dinner;  peacefully  set- 
tling himself  for  the  evening.  If  he  had  not 
taken  everything  so  much  for  granted;  if  he  had 
remained  the  lover  as  well  as  the  husband,  how 
happy  she  would  be ! 

Those  strong  and  at  root  unassailable  convic- 
tions were  conquering  her;  they  were  attacking 
the  swollen  bubbles  of  discontent;  they  were  bear- 
ing her  into  sanity,  and,  at  once,  glimpsing  their 
power,  their  inevitable  victory,  she  rebelled.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  she  found  satisfaction  in 
whipping  herself  to  increased  wretchedness  as  that 
for  the  present  there  was  more  pain  in  not  lov- 
ing than  in  loving?  To  recognize  this  tragedy 
as  evanescent,  a  mere  emotional  interlude  which 
like  storm  upon  the  land  would  pass  and  be  suc- 
ceeded by  tranquillity,  was  tormenting.  To  be- 
lieve herself  elastic,  to  doubt  her  love  for  Leon- 
ard, to  doubt  him — these  were  poisons. 

Although,  or  rather  because,  she  saw  in  them 
the  first  signs  of  convalescence,  she  buried  them 
away  and  concentrated  herself  once  more  upon 
the  future  as  it  would  be  if  she  went  to  Leonard. 


274  TEN  HOURS 

She  tried  to  see  the  cottage  as  home  with  her- 
self in  it,  serving  Leonard,  ruling  his  life.  Was 
she  not  necessary  to  him? 

Remembrance  of  his  people  entered  her  mind. 
Again  she  imaged  the  wedding  group  and  imme- 
diately those  old  prejudices  stirred.  Leonard's 
people  would  despise  her;  they  would  think  she 
had  inveigled  him ;  they  would  refuse  to  recognize 
her,  ostensibly  because  of  her  broken  reputation, 
but  actually  because  she  was  bourgeois,  because 
she  lived  in  Suburbia,  and  let  a  room.  She  knew 
how  they  would  be,  how  they  would  look,  and 
how  she  would  hate  them! 

She  stiffened,  and  her  mouth  grew  defiant.  She 
would  not  care  for  them;  their  scorn  would  not 
trouble  her;  Leonard  thought  her  the  perfect 
woman;  what  else  mattered?  He  had  not  fallen 
in  love  with  any  of  those  girls  at  the  wedding  any- 
how !  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 

The  flash  of  spirit  flickered  out.  Heavily  she 
forecast  the  two  futures,  seeing  them  now  as  al- 
most equally  dark;  doubting  the  advantages  of- 
fered by  goodness,  and  by  sin;  doubting  herself, 
doubting  Leonard;  shrinking  from  the  continued 


FORESIGHT  275 

shelter  of  the  house,  and  yet  desiring  some  lonely 
featureless  place  empty  of  everything  but  the  wind 
and  the  birds  rather  than  the  cottage  with  its  pen- 
alties and  its  memories. 

V 

She  thought  again  of  Gwennie.  That  she 
should  be  like  this — so  silly,  so  romantic,  so  sensu- 
ous !  Ally  was  quite  different. 

Now  memories  were  all  about  her  like  a  flock 
of  birds.  The  bedroom  she  had  shared  with  Ally 
was  very  distinctly  recalled,  and  Ally  brushing  her 
long  brown  hair,  and  seriously  discussing  father. 
Dear  Ally,  sedate,  good,  tranquil. 

She  saw  her  mother:  the  little  lines  and  browii 
places  on  her  skin,  the  kind  eyes,  the  way  of 
standing  with  her  stomach  slightly  advanced  so 
that  her  skirt  was  shorter  in  front  than  at  the 
back. 

She  stood  beside  the  boys.  What  good  times 
they  had  had  together!  Bird-nesting,  picking 
sloes  and  blackberries  and  hazel-nuts — burying 
each  other  in  hay  or  in  bracken — the  strong  smell 
of  the  latter  eddied  about  the  room  now — swing- 


276  TEN  HOURS 

ing  down  through  the  twilight  fields,  laughing  and 
tussling,  and  with  Ally  always  peacemaker  if  any 
acrimony  arose.  If  she  went  the  boys  would  say, 
"  Celia  do  this?  Celia !  She  was  never  like  this. 
Not  Celia." 

If  she  went  she  would  betray  her  double  trust 
to  mother  and  to  Ally.  They  had  given  her  fa- 
ther and  Gwennie.  She  was  indissolubly  tied  to 
both.  The  last  pages  of  father's  life,  and  all  of 
Gwennie's  life,  were  in  Celia's  hands;  they  were 
her  responsibilities. 

And  finally  there  was  Robert,  her  husband. 

Poor  Robert.  A  warm  maternal  rush  of  feel- 
ing subdued  her.  He  couldn't  look  after  him- 
self; he  couldn't  manage  the  house  and  his  com- 
panions. 

She  viewed  his  appearance,  placing  him  beside 
Leonard  and  dispassionately  contrasting  them. 
Her  face  began  to  respond  to  the  emotion  mov- 
ing in  her.  Most  bewilderingly  she  felt  herself 
to  be  necessary  to  both  men.  Then  with  sud- 
den freezing  intuition  she  knew  herself  to  be  most 
necessary  to  Robert.  She  penetrated  Leonard's 
character:  his  combating  caution  and  impulsive- 


FORESIGHT  277 

ness,  his  sentiment,  his  fluency.  He  had  said  too 
much.  He  should  have  been  more  reticent  under 
the  stress  of  the  situation.  Would  he  cool  off? 
Would  he,  too,  grow  accustomed  to  her?  If  he 
did  it  would  be  worse,  far  worse,  in  him  since  for 
his  sake  she  had  given  up  everything. 

She  drew  a  long  quivering  sigh.  Her  eyes 
sought  the  garden.  Father  was  coming  up  the 
path  trailing  the  rake  behind  him.  She  looked  at 
the  common  and  again  she  was  overpowered  by  a 
feeling  of  suffocation.  The  houses  drew  in  round 
her,  hiding  all  the  sinking  distances  of  sky  and 
cloud;  the  common  mocked  her  with  its  meager 
portion  of  the  liberal  beauties  of  earth.  A  train 
raced  by  and  she  mused  on  its  power.  It  could 
take  her  away  from  all  this  and  place  her  on 
heights  where  only  the  clouds  would  roof  and 
wall  her;  where  there  was  space  for  eye  and  soul. 

Tempted,  throbbing,  she  swung  back  to  the 
standpoint  of  blind  belief  in  Leonard  and  the 
stability  of  the  happiness  he  offered.  Love  was 
all;  morals,  duties,  responsibilities  were  but  names; 
bloodless  and  lifeless  things.  Love  was  the  one 
vital  need.  She  was  so  young;  why  should  she 


278  TEN  HOURS 

not  have  romance  and  rapture  and  the  joys  of 
self-indulgence?  In  either  case  self-immolation 
was  necessary;  the  sacrifice  of  the  loving  and  pas- 
sionate or  of  the  honorable  and  pure  Celia.  Why 
should  she  not  offer  up  the  last  at  the  altar  of 
love  and  snatch  the  happiness  the  other  offered? 

VI 

She  looked  at  the  clock.  Then  she  got  up  and 
went  downstairs  to  see  to  the  tea. 

She  entered  the  scullery  and  filled  the  kettle. 
Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  brass  taps,  the  white 
tiles  and  the  green,  the  bowl  filled  with  watercress, 
the  gas-cooker,  and  the  little  window  looking  out 
on  the  garden.  She  started  as  she  surveyed  every 
fresh  object  almost  as  if  silently  they  communi- 
cated with  her.  Each,  indeed,  did  send  a  mes- 
sage to  her  brain.  They  spoke  eloquently  of  this 
morning  and  of  those  other  mornings  stretching 
back  into  the  past,  so  uniform  and  calm,  so  bless- 
edly uneventful. 

How  far  away  they  seemed!  How  remote 
were  the  affairs  of  this  morning?  The  cooking, 
the  toothache,  the  broodings,  dinnertime,  Robert's 


FORESIGHT  279 

poems.  Each  had  played  its  part  in  preparing  her 
for  Leonard's  visit,  in  making  her  malleable  to 
his  touch.  .  .  .  How  far  was  her  love  for  him 
composed  of  irritation  and  discontent? 

Her  lambent  views  of  herself  were  maddening. 
She  did  love  him,  really,  truly.  ...  It  was  real 
love. 

The  vehemence  of  her  protests  filled  her  with 
shame.  There  was  nothing  to  be  proud  of  in 
that!  . 

She  put  the  kettle  on  the  gas-cooker,  and  then 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  began  to  lay  the  tray. 
The  familiarity  of  every  movement,  and  of  every- 
thing she  touched  had  an  effect  at  once  soothing 
and  painful.  She  felt  herself  to  be  in  an  atmos- 
phere hostile  to  romance  and  yet  full  of  repose. 
She  was  netted  by  a  thousand  little  delicate  fibers 
which  bound  her  down  to  the  house  and  which 
were  fastened  so  securely  into  her  that  breaking 
them  would  mean  acute  moral  pain.  Yet,  the 
next  moment,  she  chafed  at  their  strength,  she 
despaired  when  she  imagined  herself  wearing  them 
forever. 

As  she  moved  about  she  tested  herself  by  re- 


280  TEN  HOURS 

calling  memories  attached  to  almost  everything 
she  placed  on  the  tray  that  she  might  find  what 
influence  those  memories  had  on  her.  The 
straight  tea-cups — white  with  a  blue  line — the  sil- 
ver apostle  spoons,  the  little  squat  tea-pot,  the 
d'oyleys  edged  with  lace  which  she  had  crocheted 
herself — she  remembered  buying  every  one  of 
them.  Robert  had  been  with  her.  How  they  had 
enjoyed  it  all! 

Swiftly  she  desisted  in  her  examinations.  There 
were  tears  in  her  throat.  She  wondered  stupidly 
why  she  had  not  once  cried  during  this  after- 
noon. She  looked  blindly  round  the  room  and- 
beyond  the  window  at  the  low  sun,  its  bottom  rim 
lost  in  cloud. 

As  she  gazed  father  came  in  from  the  garden. 

"  Finished  at  last,"  he  said.  "  A  healthy  aft- 
ernoon's work.  The  scent  of  the  earth  is  really 
beautiful,  and  the  plants  are  beginning  to  bud 
most  beautifully  too.  If  we  don't  get  any  late 
frosts  ...  !  " 

"  If !  "  Celia  echoed.  "  But  I  daresay  we  shall. 
Still — you  never  know.  Tea  will  be  ready,  in  a 


FORESIGHT  281 

jiffy.  You've  been  out  there  a  long  time.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  safe?  " 

"  I  think  so.  I  felt  quite  warm  and  I  was 
moving  all  the  time.  Now  to  polish  myself  up  a 
little  for  a  period  of  social  intercourse !  " 

He  laughed.  Celia  laughed  too,  averting  her 
face. 

"  My  boots  have  suffered,"  he  pursued.  "  I 
am  afraid  I  have  been  like  the  little  boys  not  care- 
ful to  avoid  puddles." 

"  Dreadful !  you'll  have  to  be  punished." 

Father  laughed  again  and  rambled  out  of  the 
room. 

Celia  stared  at  the  tray,  her  eyes  blurring  with 
tears.  Father's  voice,  his  high  laugh,  his  wan- 
dering movements,  had  caught  at  her  heart  and 
she  had  become  a  mere  bundle  of  soft  susceptibili- 
ties. Desire  to  caress  and  be  caressed  overpow- 
ered her.  A  cry  of  "  Leonard !  "  and  then  "  I 
do  love  him,  I  do,"  rose  from  her  heart.  Very 
young,  very  lonely,  very  helpless,  she  longed  to 
be  able  to  slip  down  to  the  floor  and  hide  herself 
in  a  woman's  arms — her  mother's — Ally's. 


282  TEN  HOURS 

VII 

Presently  she  picked  up  the  tray  and  went  into 
the  dining-room. 

She  put  the  tray  on  the  table  and  opening  the 
doors  at  the  bottom  of  the  sidepiece,  took  out  the 
silver  cake-basket,  the  butter-dish,  and  the  Worces- 
ter marmalade  pot.  She  remembered  the  pleas- 
ure with  which  she  had  bought  the  last;  the  other 
two  were  wedding  presents. 

She  put  them  on  the  tray  and  then  an  impulse 
led  her  to  the  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece.  She 
looked  carefully  at  herself,  at  her  pale  haggard 
cheeks,  her  trembling  mouth,  lovely  in  its  shape, 
its  color,  and  its  childishness ;  her  eyes  very  round 
and  intent,  her  brows  full  of  pain. 

Behind  that  face  the  wall  and  the  top  of  fa- 
ther's screen  were  reflected. 

Unprovoked  by  thought  or  feeling  a  change 
took  place  in  her.  Her  face  hardened  and  grew 
obstinate;  her  eyes  became  somber. 

She  would  go. 


PART  IV 
SUNSET 

"  The  object,  or  the  experience,  as  it  will  be  in  memory  is 
really  the  chief  thing  to  care  for  from  first  to  last." 

WALTER  PATER. 


CHAPTER  XV 
TEA-TIME 

WHEN  she  entered  the  morning-room,  Gwennie 
was  standing  by  the  fire,  engaged  also  in  the  pur- 
suit of  inspecting  herself  in  the  overmantel.  She 
turned  when  she  heard  Celia  and  smiled. 

"Anything  I  can  do?"  she  said. 

"  Plenty.     If  you  look  you'll  see  what  I've  left." 

Celia  spoke  without  emotion;  she  was  now  en- 
tirely cold  and  impassive. 

Gwennie's  glance  discovered  this;  and  auntie's 
insensibility  increased  her  own  pleasant  excite- 
ment. It  was  quite  impossbile  to  tell  what  auntie 
intended  doing; — frightfully  exciting!  Gwennie's 
blood  thrilled  in  her  veins.  Her  own  plans  were 
clear-cut;  she  felt  competent  and  alert;  ready  to 
transfix  every  piece  of  self-revelation. 

"  All  right,  I  know  what  to  get." 

She  moved  from  the  fire,  considering  the  things 
on  the  table.  As  she  reached  Celia,  she  directed 
285 


286  TEN  HOURS 

her  glance  to  the  latter's  face,  an  oblique,  veiled 
glance,  because  she  did  not  turn  her  head.  With 
a  low  laugh,  she  put  her  arm  round  Celia's  tall 
still  body  and  hugged  it. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  alluding  breath- 
lessly to  the  tension  of  the  moment.  Her  eyes, 
open,  eloquent,  without  respect,  without  reticence, 
met  Celia's. 

The  latter  disengaged  herself.  "  You  can  lay 
the  table  while  I  make  the  tea."  She  left  the 
room  composedly. 

Gwennie  smiled.  "  Doesn't  like  my  knowing. 
Wonder  if  she's  going  or  not.  I'm  sure  to  find 
out.  Fancy  anything  like  that  happening." 

She  arranged  the  table.  "  If  she  goes,  I  shall 
have  to  tell  uncle.  Hoo !  " 

She  shook  herself  convulsively.  "  Shan't  know 
what  to  say;  'spect  he'll  be  fearfully  upset.  .  .  ." 

Her  smile  faded  and  she  looked  soberly  at  the 
cloth.  Her  mind  up  to  the  present  had  been  ab- 
sorbed in  the  romance  of  the  affair,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  other  aspects.  The  greatness  of 
Celia's  love  and  Leonard's;  the  tingling  suspense 
preceding  action;  the  effect  of  their  movements  on 


TEA-TIME  287 

her  own  life;  the  recollection  of  similar  cases  in 
novels  and  newspapers;  these  had  occupied  Gwen- 
nie's  mind  since  half-past  three.  Now,  however, 
she  peeped  apprehensively  at  the  darker  side  of 
this  passion.  She  glimpsed  a  few  of  the  things 
which  would  follow  auntie's  flight;  she  was 
brought  into  contact  with  the  knowledge  that  how- 
ever much  she  might  exonerate,  nay  justify  auntie, 
uncle,  and  father  and  the  world  would  see  her 
thrust  outside  the  social  pale. 

Gwennie's  ideas  of  morality  were  vague.  She 
said  her  prayers  every  night,  but  like  John  Donne, 
with  a  mind  distracted  by  "  an  anything,  a 
nothing,  a  fancy,  a  chimera."  .  .  .  She  knew  it 
was  wrong  to  lie,  but  she  always  adjusted  her  de- 
ceptions so  that  to  her  own  mind  they  were  excused 
by  their  necessity.  She  knew  that  it  was  sin  for 
a  married  woman  to  take  a  lover,  but  she  thought 
it  wrong  that  it  should  be  a  sin.  Marriage  be- 
came terrifying  if  it  was  to  be  regarded  as  indis- 
soluble. To  Gwennie  the  one  good,  the  one  con- 
dition which  should  be  attainable  to  all,  and  broken 
by  nothing,  was  happiness.  Everything  which 
prevented  happiness,  was  in  its  essence  wrong  and 


288  TEN  HOURS 

therefore  legitimately,  abhorrent.  This,  so  far, 
was  her  creed;  but  it  was  not  an  unshakable  one. 
She  was  governed  by  impressions,  and  she  was 
quite  ready  to  discard  past  ones  in  favor  of  new, 
always,  however,  viewing  her  own  comfort  as  a 
thing  to  be  most  sedulously  preserved. 

Contemplation  of  uncle's  arrival,  and  the  in- 
evitable explanation  proving  troublesome,  she  put 
it  aside  and  moved  about  the  table  voluptuously 
memorizing  Leonard's  most  ardent  speeches,  and 
applying  them  to  herself.  She  wondered  if 
Harry  would  ever  talk  to  her  like  that.  Certainly 
she  would  go  to  meet  him  to-night.  .  .  . 

II 

Celia  and  father  returned  together,  father  rub- 
bing his  palms  against  each  other,  and  looking 
washed  and  slightly  mauve  under  the  fur-edged 
cap. 

"  Ah,  Gwennie,"  he  observed,  "  we  meet  again. 
Our  intercourse  seems  limited  to  the  table !  Ha  I 
Ha!" 

Gwennie  giggled. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  into  the  garden  and 


TEA-TIME  289 

help  me?  It  was  beautiful  there,  beautiful.  I 
cannot  say  that  the  *  scent  of  the  rose  is  blown ' 
but  the  smell  of  the  earth  is  delightful.  The  good 
red  earth,  to  which  we  must  all  return,  to  which 
I  shall  soon  return.  .  .  .  '  Into  the  breast  that 
gives  the  rose  shall  I  with  shuddering  fall.'  " 

"Gracious,  you  are  getting  dismal,  father!" 
Celia  exclaimed.  "  You  want  a  stimulant,  I  can 
see.  Get  his  chair,  Gwen,  and  your  own." 

"  The  cup  that  cheers,"  father  remarked. 
"  Thank  you,  my  dear." 

Tremblingly  he  seated  himself  beside  Gwennie. 
The  latter  propped  her  elbows  on  the  table  and 
her  chin  in  her  hands. 

Celia  glanced  at  her.  "Elbows  off,  Gwen!" 
she  commanded. 

For  a  second  Gwennie  hesitated,  then  she 
smiled,  and  buried  her  fists  deeper  in  her  full 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  without  temper,  but  rude  in 
their  directness,  challenged  Celia. 

Level,  staring,  Celia's  gaze  met  the  girl's. 

"  Gwennie,  I  spoke  to  you;  elbows  off." 

Gwennie  did  not  move.  Her  smile  grew  fixed. 
"  It's  more  comfy." 


290  TEN  HOURS 

Father  turned  a  rebuking  face  to  her,  but  her 
gaze  did  not  waver  from  Celia. 

The  latter  sat,  battling  with  anger,  shame,  and 
sickening  fear.  Before  she  could  choose  out  of  a 
chaos  of  words  father  interposed. 

"  Gwennie,  auntie  spoke  to  you.  That  isn't 
the  way  a  lady  sits." 

Gwennie  laughed.  Leisurely,  she  removed  her 
arms. 

"  Do  it  for  you,"  she  said.  "  Not  too  much 
milk;  like  to  taste  the  tea." 

Unruffled  by  the  silence  of  her  elders,  she  re- 
ceived her  cup  and  saucer,  and  then  went  on, 
drawlingly,  "  Saw  in  the  paper  this  morning,  about 
a  young  girl  who'd  been  murdered,  quite  a  young 
girl,  eighteen  I  think  she  was,  soldier  shot  her, 
her  lover." 

"  We  aren't  interested  in  these  edifying  events," 
Celia  said.  "  You  can  find  plenty  in  the  paper 
more  worth  reading  about  than  that  if  you  look." 

"  It  was  most  interesting,"  Gwennie  said,  her 
lids  flickering.  "  She  was  an  office  girl,  like  my- 
self, lived  at  Kingston,  they  found  her  body  .  .  ." 

"  Exactly.  .  .  .  Did  I  give  you  enough  sugar, 


TEA-TIME  291 

father?  He's  such  a  useful  boy  making  the  home 
beautiful, — only  it's  the  garden  in  this  case, — but 
the  principle's  the  same — that  he  deserves  a  little 
reward." 

"  I  should  like  a  trifle  more,  please." 

"Jam,  Gwennie?" 

"  No,  thanks.  They  found  the  body  in  a  third- 
class  railway  carriage.  .  .  ." 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Gwen,  don't  be  so 
grewsome.  You're  not  healthy-minded.  These 
sort  of  things  aren't  worth  discussing." 

She  looked  firmly  at  Gwennie.  Her  heart  was 
not  fluttering  now;  she  was  insensate  again,  proof 
against  the  significance  of  Gwennie's  demeanor, 
impenetrable  to  the  appeal  of  the  teatable,  and 
the  room,  and  father's  unsteady  hands.  Her 
mind  had  made  its  resolution.  She  was  going. 
She  did  not  know  what  had  determined  her,  the 
resolve  had  simply  voiced  itself,  and  at  once  all 
thought  and  emotion  had  been  cleared  away.  She 
felt  as  empty  and  cold  as  a  shell.  She  was  able 
to  read  motives  and  expressions  and  see  their  se- 
quels without  finding  them  personally  related  to 
herself.  Gwennie  defied  her.  If  she  were  stay- 


292  TEN  HOURS 

ing  that  meant  much;  as  she  was  going.  .  .  . 
Gwennie  was  assuming  independence;  that  had 
grave  bearing  on  Gwennie's  future,  but  on  Celia's? 
None.  She  would  be  remote  from  it  all,  with 
Leonard,  her  lover. 

Absolutely  passionlessly  she  looked  at  father. 
He  represented  no  duty,  he  awoke  no  memories. 
"  Pass  the  marmalade,  Gwennie,  please.  Thank 
you." 

She  could  eat,  though  the  food  was  tasteless. 
She  could  say  the  little  natural  things.  She  could 
look  round  the  room,  knowing  this  to  be  her  last 
tea  here.  Funny  that  she  wasn't  more  excited! 
She  felt  as  hard  as  a  rock, — positively  she  did  not 
care  at  all  whether  she  hurt  them.  Everything 
seemed  simple  and  unessential. 

Ill 

Gwennie  watched  her,  not  openly  and  confi- 
dentially now,  but  covertly  and  with  a  return  of 
distrust.  She  was  baffled.  Auntie's  calm  was  im- 
penetrable. It  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  it 
portended  surrender  or  renunciation,  but  whatever 
its  meaning,  one  thing  was  clear;  Gwennie  was 


TEA-TIME  293 

not  to  receive  confidence.  Till  the  last  moment 
auntie  would  maintain  her  reserve  and  her  dignity, 
would  attempt  strenuously  to  maintain  authority. 
In  this  final  attitude,  Gwennie  was  determined  she 
should  not  succeed.  Auntie  might  decline  to  rec- 
ognize that  she  had  forfeited  her  right  to  com- 
mand, but  Gwennie  could,  and  would,  show  her 
intention  of  being  no  longer  obedient.  If  auntie 
turned  nasty,  well,  then,  Gwennie  had  a  weapon 
to  use :  knowledge.  .  .  . 

Complacently,  she  drank  tea.  Then  uncom- 
fortable doubt  attacked  her.  That  was  all  very 
well  if  auntie  went,  but  if  auntie  stayed?  She 
would  make  Gwennie  pay  for  this  brief  season  of 
independence.  Certainly  the  weapon  would  still 
be  at  hand, — but, — its  usage  at  tea  now  was  dif- 
ferent from  its  usage  through  weeks  and  months. 
That  last  meant  discussions,  questions  from  uncle; 
scenes,  tears,  endless  trouble  and  discomfort. 
Frightfully  tiring!  Rows  made  one  awfully 
fagged.  Gwennie  hated  having  to  explain.  If 
she  threatened  to  use  the  weapon  but  did  not,  per- 
haps that  would  keep  auntie  in  subjection.  .  .  . 
But  it  would  be  awfully  uncomfortable,  living  at 


294  TEN  HOURS 

daggers  drawn  with  any  one !  It  would  mean  per- 
petual warfare,  not  less  wearing  because  it  was 
concealed.  Besides ; — sudden  generosity  warmed 
Gwennie;  it  would  be  mean,  beastly  mean.  Gwen- 
nie  had  her  own  code  of  honor  in  these  matters. 
If  auntie  stayed,  it  would  be  sporting  of  her,  aw- 
fully fine  and  good;  to  give  up  love,  give  up  every- 
thing for  duty,  that  would  be  splendid.  Why,  she, 
Gwennie,  wouldn't  mind  obeying  any  one  who  did 
that!  Auntie  would  be  a  heroine.  Gwennie, 
threatening  her,  would  be  a  mean  beast. 

Dear,  this  was  tiring!  .  .  . 

Gwennie's  head  cleared.  "  May  I  have  some 
water-cress,  auntie,  please." 

"  Certainly."  Celia  passed  it.  She  had  missed 
the  significance  of  Gwennie's  sentence.  Percep- 
tions dulled,  eyes  unobservant,  she  did  not  notice 
that  Gwennie  no  longer  demanded;  she  asked. 

IV 

"  Will  you  have  some  water-cress,  father?  " 
"  Thank  you.   .   .  .   Robert  has  had  a  nice  aft- 
ernoon,— only  that  one  shower.     The  sunset  looks 
rainy  though." 


TEA-TIME  295 

All  three  glanced  through  the  window  at  the 
ruddy  flames,  and  at  the  dark  gray  below  them, 
rifted  and  parted  with  the  aspect  of  sand  printed 
with  the  sea's  flux. 

Their  faces  were  touched  with  this  lemon  glow, 
but  up  the  walls,  dusk  stole.  Soon  the  twilight 
would  possess  the  house,  it  would  gather  upon  the 
town,  stealthily  subduing  the  last  fires  burnishing 
the  streets.  Stars  would  come  .  .  .  and  the  half- 
moon. 

Involuntarily  Gwennie  looked  at  the  clock:  past 
five ;  her  glance  went  to  Celia. 

It  penetrated  the  latter's  frozen  heart.  Celia 
started,  crimsoned,  and  then  grew  deadly  pale. 
Her  eyes  fell.  She  had  been  about  to  lift  her  cup 
but  she  was  forced  to  wait  till  her  hand  trembled 
less. 

"  She's  going,"  thought  Gwennie. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
SIX  O'CLOCK 

THEY  finished  tea,  but  did  not  at  once  move  from 
the  table.  Silently  they  watched  the  shadows  rip- 
pling up  the  walls  and  misting  the  ceiling,  and  the 
wild  bright  radiance  narrow  about  them.  Gwen- 
nie  mused  over  the  probabilities  of  the  evening, 
quickened  at  the  thought  that  Harry  might  attempt 
to  kiss  her,  and  decided  to  let  him.  .  .  .  Celia 
listened  to  the  trains';  she  saw  under  the  sunset, 
the  pines  breaking  in  soft  pointed  lengths,  mur- 
muring amid  silences,  burying  their  roots  in  fra- 
grant mold,  shaking  their  crests  to  the  skies.  .  .  . 
Father  sat,  looking  old  and  puffy  in  the  yellow- 
ing glow,  his  head  full  of  formless  dreaming. 

Presently,  he  spoke,  his  words  coming  out  in 
a  sigh. 

"  A  beautiful  evening,  I  shall  enjoy  my  walk 
to-night.  ..." 

Celia  was  jerked  back  from  her  visions.  She 
296 


SIX  O'CLOCK  297 

turned  upon  him  eyes  dilating  with  dismay.  Fa- 
ther's walk;  she  had  forgotten  all  about  that. 

With  the  lengthening  days,  father  had  a  short 
walk  after  tea.  Celia  took  him  round  the  com- 
mon for  half  an  hour.  The  air  made  him  sleep 
well,  and  the  sights  encountered  on  the  way  oc- 
cupied his  mind.  They  started  at  a  quarter  to 
six,  and  returned  at  a  quarter-past,  when  twilight 
was  becoming  dark.  She  had  forgotten  all  about 
it;  a  quarter-to-six;  she  was  to  start  for  Leon- 
ard at  six. 

In  her  ears  was  a  drumming,  the  atmosphere 
shifted  before  her  eyes  like  a  thin  screen,  and 
father's  face  seemed  to  recede  and  advance  gro- 
tesquely. 

"  We  will  go  down  Charwood  Lane,"  he  pur- 
sued. "  There  will  be  no  dust  and  everything  will 
smell  beautiful  after  the  rain." 

He  smiled  at  her. 

She  pressed  her  palms  on  the  cold  tablecloth. 
She  heard  herself  say  jerkily,  "  I'm  going  out  to- 
night, father,  by  myself.  I've  got  to  go, — can't 
put  it  off,  didn't  I  tell  you?  .  .  .  you  must — " 
Out  of  black,  whirling  terror,  a  merciful  solution 


298  TEN  HOURS 

rose.  "  You  must  go  with  Gwennie  to-night. 
You  don't  mind,  do  you?  .  .  .  Gwennie  will  go 
with  you."  She  forced  herself  to  look  at  Gwen- 
nie. 

The  latter  did  not  at  once  look  back.  She  had 
scarcely  heeded  the  last  sentences,  so  deeply  had 
the  first  bitten  into  her  mind.  Auntie  was  going 
then! 

Gwennie  breathed  in  funny  little  puffs.  She 
looked  at  Celia,  and  in  her  eyes  wonder,  admira- 
tion, even  respect,  rioted  together.  Auntie  was 
going,  was  throwing  aside  everything  for  love. 
How  wonderful,  how  dreadful;  how  fearfully, 
painfully  exciting ! 

The  hard  table  was  the  only  thing  that  assured 
Celia  of  the  reality  of  this  nightmare.  Gwennie's 
eyes  made  her  want  to  shriek,  they  were  burning 
darts  which  thrust  down  into  her. 

She  spoke  through  withered  lips.  "  You'll  go 
with  father,  Gwennie;  just  round  the  common, 
wherever  he  wants  to  go,  for  about  half-an-hour." 

Father  turned  and  smiled  at  his  grand-daughter. 
She  ignored  him.  In  the  short  silence  she  con- 
sidered Celia's  words;  take  father  out;  Harry 


SIX  O'CLOCK  299 

would  be  waiting  for  her  at  six;  potter  round  the 
common  with  this  old  man!  that  she  would  not. 
...  It  was  not  her  concern,  performing  auntie's 
duties.  She  was  going  to  meet  Harry,  that  was 
what  she  was  going  to  do. 

"Sorry,  auntie,  I'm  going  out  myself.  I've  ar- 
ranged to  meet  some  one,  at  six.  ...  I  must 
go " 

Celia  flung  her  a  fierce  look  and  met  one  bold, 
heavy-lidded,  defiant.  Like  woLcs,  those  fore- 
sights rushed  howling  upon  her.  This  was  the 
beginning,  Gwennie's  first  recognition  and  use  of 
freedom. 

"  Nonsense,  Gwen,  yours  can't  be  important. 
You  must  take  father  round  the  common.  I  wish 
you  to." 

"  Sorry,  can't.  ...  I  really  must  keep  my  ap- 
pointment. .  .  ." 

Serene,  calm,  Gwennie  looked  at  her.  She  slid 
down  in  her  chair  till  its  back  pushed  her  hair  up 
and  out,  she  became  a  mere  soft  curving  bundle, 
with  eyes  glinting  narrowly. 

"  Oh  come,  my  dear,  you  mustn't  talk  to  auntie 
like  that,  I'm  sure  you  don't  mean  to  be  rude.  Our 


300  TEN  HOURS 

walk  is  only  a  short  one ;  you  can  go  and  meet  your 
friend  afterwards,  can't  she,  Celia?  " 

"  She  is  to  take  you  round  the  common,"  Celia 
said,  her  voice  controlled  and  keen.  "  Do  you 
understand,  Gwennie,  for  half-an-hour?  .  .  ." 

Gwennie's  chin  sank  on  her  chest.  "  I'm  not 
going,  I  can't,  I  told  you  why, — sorry." 

The  roads  were  turning  cold;  over  the  com- 
mon bronze  reflections  shone,  and  puddles  and 
veins  of  water  burnt  redly.  Brilliant  visions 
seared  Celia's  eyes:  a  countryside  soaked  in  crim- 
son, trees  like  fiery  swords;  woods  where  damp 
odors  rose  more  strongly  as  the  dark  passed  over 
the  flats  and  flowed  upward  to  the  heights;  the 
station,  Leonard,  and  then  that  awful  featureless 
gloom  of  irrevocable  action,  of  consequences  not 
to  be  escaped,  of  lives  swept  beyond  her  control. 

"Gwennie,  how  can  you?  Just  for  half-an- 
hour,  you  know  you  ought  to,  you  know  you  ought 
not  refuse."  Her  eyes  begged  Gwennie,  they 
humbled  themselves.  Guilty,  dark  with  pain,  they 
asked  Gwennie's  merciful  obedience. 

Gwennie  stared  back  unmoved,  almost  scorn- 
ful. Celia,  broken,  shivering,  tasted  all  the  poison 


SIX  O'CLOCK  301 

of  degradation;  she  cowed  beneath  judgment,  and 
felt  herself  already  stained  and  discarded.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Leonard. 

"  Take  him  yourself,  if  you  want  him  to  go. 
I  shan't." 

It  was  Gwennie's  rudest  speech.  Her  own 
heart  sank  with  apprehension  after  she  had  made 
it. 

With  dignity,  father  spoke.  "  You  are  a  very 
insolent  little  girl.  If  I  were  Celia  I  should  pun- 
ish you  severely.  .  .  ."  He  turned  to  his  daugh- 
ter, "  My  dear,  Gwennie  need  not  be  forced  to  do 
anything  she  resents  so  strongly,  and  neither  are 
you  to  be  put  out.  I  will  go  by  myself." 

II 

"  By  yourself."  Celia  echoed  the  words  with 
a  dim  numb  sense  that  they  meant  tragedy  more 
near,  more  poignant  than  any  yet  conceived. 

"  Yes,  certainly.  It  is  not  necessary  for  any 
one  to  come  with  me,  not  necessary  at  all,  I  can 
go  by  myself  very  well.  I  am  not,  ha!  ha!  so 
decrepit  as  all  that." 

His  hands  shook  on  the  cloth,  his  eyes  icily  in- 


302  TEN  HOURS 

spected  Gwennie,  and  then  softened  as  they  left 
her  for  Celia.  The  unprecedented  situation  dis- 
ordered him.  He  rambled  on,  "  Quite  well  go  by 
myself,  no  need  at  all  for  any  one  to  come  with 
me,  of  course  not.  .  .  ." 

Dully  Celia  thought;  "  go  by  himself!  "  How 
many  years  was  it  since  he  had  gone  out  by  him- 
self? Mother,  Ally,  the  boys,  Celia — not  since 
those  old  wounding  days  when  his  weakness  so 
constantly  betrayed  itself,  had  he  been  left  alone, 
unaccompanied  by  none  of  them.  Now  he  was  to 
have  freedom.  .  .  . 

"  Of  course,  yes,  you  could  go  by  yourself,  but 
nicer  to  have  Gwennie  with  you, — -company — 
Gwennie,  you  will?" 

Already  regrets  were  harassing  Gwennie  but  she 
refused  to  yield  to  them. 

"  Don't  see  why  I  should,"  she  muttered.  "  I'm 
not  going  to,  I've  got  to  keep  my  appointment, 
you  keep  yours." 

Celia  quivered.  It  was  nearly  six.  Leonard 
would  be  wondering,  longing. 

"  Perhaps,  you  needn't  go  to-night,  father.  It 
.is  rather  windy.  .  .  ." 


SIX  O'CLOCK  303 

"  Nonsense."  His  voice  cracked  sharply. 
"  Why  should  I  not  go  by  myself !  One  would 
think  you  expected  something  to  happen  to  me." 

Her  eyes  fell  from  his.  "  No,  no,  of  course 
not,  father,  but  it's  not  so  nice  by  yourself." 

"  It  will  be  just  as  nice,"  he  corrected  peevishly. 
"  I  am  not  so  afflicted  that  I  cannot  take  a  short 
walk  without  support.  .  .  ."  He  straightened 
his  thin  body.  "  Of  course  I  can  go  by  myself." 
He  assumed  a  capable  and  impressive  air  which 
contrasted  piteously  with  his  shaking  hands  and 
the  cap  with  its  ragged  fringe.  "  What  is  the 
time?  Getting  on  for  six;  nearly  time  to  start. 
I  shall  be  back  about  a  quarter  past;  don't  hurry, 
Celia,  I  have  my  key." 

He  looked  at  his  wrinkled  hands  resting  on  the 
shiny  cloth  of  his  trousers;  but  he  did  not  see  them; 
broodingly  he  constructed  the  walk. 

Celia  looked  from  him  to  Gwennie;  fits  of  shiv- 
ering attacked  her  body,  but  her  face  and  hands 
were  burning.  She  saw  Gwennie's  lips  thickened 
and  glazed,  her  somber  eyes,  the  creamy  fleshi- 
ness of  her  chin  and  throat.  She  saw  the  long 
mauve  ridges  of  father's  cheeks,  his  working 


304  TEN  HOURS 

mouth,  the  expression  growing  in  his  pale  eyes. 
She  saw  the  darkening  room  and  beyond  it  color- 
swept  widths  of  land,  and  Leonard,  Leonard 
who  was  counting  the  moments,  who  was  racked 
with  anxiety  as  six  approached. 

"  Gwennie."     The  name  was  scarcely  audible. 

Gwennie  drew  a  deep  breath  but  made  no  other 
response. 

Feeling  Celia  turn  towards  him,  father  looked 
up,  and  gave  her  a  furtive  ugly  glance.  It  made 
her  flesh  creep.  Instantly  withdrawn  as  it  was 
the  impression  of  it  remained  so  that  she  watched 
him  with  horror  and  saw  his  face  coarsened,  and 
full  of  twitching  unrest.  He  spoke  at  random. 

"  Of  course  I'll  go  by  myself.  It  will  be  a 
change — a  pleasant  change.  No  one  need  put 
themselves  out  for  me.  I  have  my  key." 

The  room  became  silent;  the  fire  was  burning 
without  noise;  only  the  wind  wrapped  the  house 
in  long  throbbing  harmonies. 

Ill 

He  would  go  by  himself. 

Celia's  mind  drew  the  scene  with  sure  rapid 


SIX  O'CLOCK  305 

strokes.  He  would  go  by  himself.  He  would 
see  the  empty  common  stretching  round  him,  the 
gray  streets  raying  away  from  it,  the  town  set- 
tling its  lights  down  the  dusk  and  hazed  over 
with  light  as  the  sky  darkened  and  the  stars  ap- 
peared. He  would  be  thrilled  with  the  sense 
of  freedom.  The  whistling  common  would  repel 
him,  the  town  invite. 

For  sheer  terror  her  brain  stopped.  Her  gaze 
went  to  Gwennie.  Gwennie,  rebellious,  independ- 
ent, governed  by  uncontrollable  only  half-compre- 
hended excitement,  would  go  out  too;  she  would 
go  to  meet  that  boy. 

Celia's  hot  palms  came  stiffly  together.  She 
pierced  Gwennie's  preoccupation  and  detected  all 
the  crude  but  throbbing  sensualties  engrossing  the 
girl's  mind:  the  wanton  determination,  the  re- 
sponse to  lures,  the  unbridled  desire  for  con- 
quest. 

Her  throat  was  so  dry  that  she  felt  choked;  her 
knees  knocked  together.  Father — Gwennie. 

The  room  was  now  nearly  dark.  The  brands 
in  the  west  were  burning  down,  but  daylight  still 
lay  blue  and  luminous  over  the  suburb. 


306  TEN  HOURS 

In  the  soft  shadow  beyond  the  table  she  saw 
figures  moving — her  mother — Ally. 

She  saw  them  both,  not  as  they  had  been  in 
life  but  as  they  had  appeared  to  her  young  fearful 
eyes  when  she  saw  them  dead.  Mother  with  the 
pillow  white  and  smooth  on  either  side  of  her 
little  gray  face;  very  composed,  very  still;  the 
gray  hair  misting  her  brow;  her  body  a  small 
mound  under  the  counterpane.  Ally — she  shud- 
dered. Ally  had  looked  dreadful.  Her  face  had 
grown  like  an  animal's,  so  thin,  so  sharp,  had  dis- 
ease made  it.  The  luxuriance  of  her  dark  hair 
seemed  a  mockery. 

From  each — from  mother,  from  Ally,  she  had 
received  a  charge — father,  Gwennie.  Now  these 
two  were  going  their  own  way.  Father  was 
moistening  his  lips  and  passing  his  tongue  over 
them.  She  knew  the  movement  and  it  filled  her 
with  all  the  profound  pity  and  alarm  she  had  en- 
dured as  a  child.  If  father  went  out  to-night 
by  himself  the  good  of  these  years  of  guardian- 
ship would  be  broken.  He  was  foreseeing  the 
chances  of  freedom;  he  would  not  have  strength 


SIX  O'CLOCK  307 

to  resist  those  chances  when  they  were  actually 
about  him. 

Gwennie,  Ally's  daughter,  was  inquisitively 
peering  into  sexual  mysteries;  she  was  intent  on 
fanning  flames  whose  consuming  peril  she  only 
half  realized. 

These  were  the  aspects  of  the  room.  Outside, 
in  the  murmurous  evening,  Robert  was  coming 
home  past  meadows  with  hedgerows  trailing  like 
ropes  across  them,  about  him  horizons  embrowned 
by  dusk.  Robert  .  .  . 

It  was  five  to  six.  Leonard  was  walking  to  the 
station.  .  .  . 

She  heard  him  entreating  and  urging  her.  For 
one  moment  she  looked  on  his  face,  and  her  heart 
leapt  and  strained  towards  him.  Then  the  room 
cleared.  She  saw  father  and  Gwennie.  She  knew 
that  if  she  went  she  would  forever  after  look 
back  upon  this  day  with  an  agony  of  remorse  and 
self-loathing.  In  the  calendar  of  her  life  it  would 
stand  out  as  the  forerunner  of  black  and  terrible 
duplicates,  all  populous  with  regrets,  all  stretch- 
ing grimly  to  her  life's  end.  Happiness !  Hap- 


308  TEN  HOURS 

piness  would  lie  in  the  days  which  preceded  it. 
No  joys  could  subdue  the  memory  of  its  decision. 
Branded  in  her  heart,  this  memory  would  forever 
drain  the  life  out  of  all  pleasures.  .  .  . 

Something  in  her  seemed  to  click.  That  new 
and  tortured  Celia  born  to-day,  belonging  to  to- 
day, was  pressed  back  and  buried  in  to-day.  She 
had  no  part  in  any  to-morrows. 

The  old  Celia,  pale,  weak,  and  immobile,  was 
now  full  in  possession  of  her  heart  and  body. 
High  above  her,  retreating  into  some  dim  region 
of  not-to-be-secured  flame,  and  romance,  and  won- 
derment went  all  the  joys  and  torments  of  these 
hours,  and  she  was  glad  to  see  them  go.  She 
remained  safe  and  unharmed,  in  the  house;  she 
was  anchored  there ;  she  was  indissolubly  part  of 
it. 

Almost  happy  in  the  end  of  her  conflict,  she 
looked  at  father. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  have  your  walk  spoilt,  father. 
My  business  isn't  important.  I  can  easily  put  it 
off.  Gwennie  and  I  will  both  go  with  you — and 
we'd  better  make  haste  or  it  will  be  dark." 

She  smiled  at  them  both. 


SIX  O'CLOCK  309 

Gwennie  straightened;  father  stared  and  strove 
bitterly  for  speech. 

"  My  business  was  nothing,"  Celia  repeated. 
"  Get  your  hat  and  coat,  Gwennie." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  no  need  to  put  anything  off 
on  my  account.  I  can  quite  well  go  by  myself." 

Neither  Celia  nor  Gwennie  heeded  him.  With 
a  common  impulse  they  stood  up  and  faced  each 
other  across  the  table.  Celia  was  in  the  short- 
ening strip  of  light,  Gwennie  stood  in  shadow. 

"  Get  your  hat  and  coat,  Gwen,  and  we'll  all  go 
together." 

"  You're  not  going  then?  "  Gwennie  shot  out. 

"  No." 

Proudly,  even  smilingly,  Celia  confronted  her. 
Her  body  was  stiffening;  she  threw  all  her  strength 
into  her  glance  and  commanded  Gwennie's  respect 
and  obedience. 

The  disconcerted  father  watched  them  inno- 
cently. 

For  an  instant  Gwennie  clung  to  her  desires. 
Her  mind  rushed  to  and  fro  seeking  words,  eva- 
sions, flat  defiances;  then  these  became  unessential. 
Celia,  white,  inflexible,  victorious,  was  all-impor- 


310  TEN  HOURS 

tant.  She  had  resisted  the  charm  of  Leonard's 
fervent  speeches.  She  was  staying  here,  deliber- 
ately fastening  on  herself  the  cold  shackles  of  duty. 
Her  appearance,  her  action,  cast  over  the  impres- 
sionable Gwennie  a  spell  which  for  the  time  at 
least  was  stronger  than  all  other  appeals. 

She  spoke  explosively.     "  All  right,  I'll  come." 

Celia's  knees  shook  suddenly.  She  sank  down 
into  the  chair. 

"  Good,"  she  said. 

Ashamed  at  the  revival  of  those  old  vicious  in- 
clinations, father  lowered  his  flushed  face. 

She  divined  his  penitence  and  spoke  with  a 
tremulous  briskness. 

"  Nothing  must  do  father  out  of  his  walk,  bless 
him!" 

Leaning  forward,  she  kissed  him,  the  fur  of 
the  cap  tickling  her  cheek. 

The  daylight  splashed  whitely  round  the  win- 
dow. Across  the  town  blocked  darkly  in  the  pal- 
ing lights,  six  o'clock  boomed  resonantly.  .  .  . 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 


NOV   21&7 

NOV  07l987i- 


3  115801202  9962 


A     000030839     5 


